She pulled me back down.
“Listen to me. Okay? For one second, brush off your wounded pride and your goddamn pathos and just listen. It’s been tough for me, too. What I do isn’t glamorous, or even pleasant. But it’s what I have to do, and you know it. And without Cacher, it would have been a whole lot harder. I couldn’t risk that, losing that protection. No matter how I felt.”
I sat looking at her for a minute. She seemed genuinely sorry. Though that might have just been the blood loss talking.
“Well, I mean.” I scratched my hand. “You could have given me discount, at least.”
Emily moaned.
“You’re such an asshole, sometimes. Such a damn asshole.”
She grabbed my collar with her one good arm and pulled me down. Our lips met, teeth clicking, and then I was buried in warmth and softness. She tasted like… nothing I knew. She tasted perfect.
When I sat up she was crying, and there was fresh blood on her shirt.
“Maybe next time don’t lean on me like that.”
“Oh, shit, Em, I’m sorry. Damn it.” I stood up quickly and got more bandages and a clean alcohol swab. When I came back into the room she was leaning up on her good arm. “Lie back and let me-”
“Shut up,” she hissed. I stopped. There was a clatter on the front sidewalk, like someone spilling coins.
We stayed perfectly still, staring at the door. The sound came again, closer. I dropped the bandages and went for my gun. It was still gone.
“Can you walk?” I whispered.
“Maybe.” She was already sitting up, her legs tossed sluggishly over the edge of the couch, feet on the ground. She leaned forward and rested her head in her hands. “Maybe.”
I gave her my arm. Together we got her upright and began to shuffle to the hallway.
“We’ll hide downstairs, on the dock,” I said. “I’ll swim. There are other docks nearby, have to be. One of them must have a boat.”
“And if they come downstairs?” she asked, her teeth grinding. Her eyes were squeezed shut tight.
“Then I’ll perform a heroic rescue. That might be better, actually. I’ve always favored the idea of heroism.”
“Looking forward to that,” she said, little laughs escaping around the pain.
The front door burst open. There was a machine. It was a twisted array of pipes, crudely bolted together and animated by a set of arms and legs of rough artifice. It stumbled into the room. A valve clapped open and emitted a low moan. Its voice sounded like a pipe organ channeling a hurricane.
“Jacob godsdamned Burn, don’t you let them keep me like this. For mercy’s sake, you kill me, you fucking horrible bastard. You fucking kill me again.”
Emily slumped against me, gaping. I nearly dropped her. I knew that voice, twisted as it was through metal.
“Marcus?”
“Oh, hell.” Emily buried her face in my shoulder.
“Marcus, indeed. Good boy, Marcus,” Sloane said as he walked through the door. He reached down and banged a lever on the thing’s back. The machine that spoke with Marcus’ voice clattered to the floor.
“Now. Stand still.” He pointed a pistol at us. Dozens of Badgemen flowed in behind him. “We need to have a chat, Jacob Burn.”
Chapter Fourteen
It was a short fight; it wasn’t a fight at all. I stepped forward to meet them and Emily collapsed from my arm. In turning to her, I turned away from them. They were on me in half a breath. They trussed me tight in leather belts and steel. I lay on the couch. Emily was still on the floor.
“Don’t leave her there, you bastards,” I gasped through bloody lips.
“She’ll be attended. In good time,” Sloane said. He lay his pistol on the desk, then removed his thin leather gloves and tossed them next to it. I saw that the revolver was brass inlaid, just like the one I had, from the Glory. “Anyone else in the house? Tell us, or we’ll kill them when we find them.”
“No one,” I said. He nodded, then signaled five men to search, and another five to secure the door. They rushed off, as though anxious to be out of his presence.
Leaning against the desk, he stared at me with casual indifference. When the men came back and shook their heads, he sent them out into the street. Once we were alone he turned his attention to Emily.
“You’re concerned for her. She’s breathing still, if that’s your interest.” He craned his neck. “And she appears to be bleeding.” He turned back to me, his eyebrows up. His tone was conversational. “She’s been shot? Or stabbed? Good stuff. Ah, here we are.” He bent closer to her and raised his voice. “Good morning, dear.”
Emily moaned and stirred. I twisted to see her, but couldn’t get my head around too well. Sloane pushed me back with one foot.
“Yes, good morning, lovely. Feeling well? You’d be Emily, I suppose? Gone off the treaty a bit, haven’t we, my dear?”
She levered herself up, panting in pain. He nodded to her.
“Up, up, up. Onto the couch, quickly now.” He picked up the pistol, delicately, as though it would leave a foul stench on his hand if he gripped it too firmly. He waved it indistinctly in Emily’s direction. “No laying about on Mr. Sloane’s time, is there?”
“Where did you get that?” I asked, hoping to distract him from tormenting the girl. It was definitely a service revolver of the Air Corps.
“You like it? I thought you might be interested.” He held it so I could see the crest. Glory of Day. “Tell me, where do you think I got it?”
“From the Fehn. From the river.”
“Good. Dots are beginning to connect. And where do you think you got your pistol?”
I squirmed on the sofa and tried to sit up. He watched me disinterestedly, then smacked me lightly across the face with the pistol.
“Where. Do you think. You got your pistol?”
“You know.” I spat.
“Of course I know, Jacob. Because you got it from me. I wrapped it in that box and had it delivered to you at the Manor Tomb. Mysteriously. Mystery is such an effective tool in the paranoid mind, Mr. Burn.” He leaned happily against the desk and folded his arms, the pistol tucked under his elbow. “Speaking of which. Where is your pistol?”
“I left it at the Church. Dropped it.”
“Dropped it. At the Church. Really.” He looked over my shoulder at the wall. “I wonder what they’re going to make of that. Interesting.”
“What was the point, Sloane?”
“You didn’t give me a lot of time, Mr. Burn. I only found out you were going to be at that party that morning. Had to do something to keep you out of Angela’s hands, didn’t I? I figured getting you a little paranoid would do the trick.”
“So it was a setup?” I looked at Emily. “They got me up there to capture me. What about the Angel?”
“Yes! What about the Angel. I was hoping you could tell me, Jacob. What do you know about him?”
I laid out a long, tired sigh. “This is how you ask questions? I’m not telling you anything, man. Not anything.”
He smiled at me, a grim, empty smile.
“No, I suppose you’re not. Not at all.” He turned to Emily again. “On the couch, woman. I am patient, but not in that way.”
“Fuck off,” Emily spat from the floor. Sloane raised the pistol and cocked it.
“You get one warning. It’s a pity you use it on such a trivial thing.” He fired into the couch, inches above her head. I yelled and struggled forward. He kicked me in the face, without looking.
Grimacing, Emily dragged herself forward. He held the pistol on her, a little half smile wrinkling his face, until she collapsed next to me on the sofa. Her skin was cold and pale, and sweat beaded her face.
“Enough? This is a good start, but we really don’t have much time. Not the usual leisurely chat, for us. I’m going to start by assuming that you don’t have it with you?”
“What?” I asked.
He reached forward and cracked my face with his pistol. With my arms bound I fell to the ground, smearing blood on the carpet.
“I don’t want to sit through this again.” Arms on my shoulders, he grunted as he lifted and then dropped me onto the couch. Emily was gaping at him. When I looked up he was leaning against the desk, as though he had never moved.