Page 68 of The Unweaver

“Come on, love.” Smiling her vulpine smile, Anita patted a barstool and waggled her eyebrows. “Plop your skinny arsedown and tell me how you put Mal in such a tizzy. No denying it. I feel the rush in both your veins”

With a last desperate look at the door, Cora slid onto the barstool. “Mind if I—?” Not waiting for an answer, she poured a shot from the first bottle she grabbed and winced. Vodka. Stomach-shredding vodka.

“Oh, this is gonna be interesting.” Anita poured herself a shot and gestured towards Bane’s office. “What wasthatabout, eh?”

“Nothing,” she muttered. “That infuriating arsehole.”

Anita chuckled. “Mal’s always cool as a cucumber. In all the years I’ve known him, I ain’t ever heard him raise his voice. Not even when Moriarty was killed, and they were good mates for years back in Ireland. Say, Dimi, you ever hear Mal holler like that?”

He grunted what might have been a negative, thudding down one crate and plodding off to grab another.

“Bane doesn’t appear to have that problem around me.” Cora grimaced through more vodka burning down her gullet. “What an honor. Is all this booze for the meeting tonight?”

“When the gang gets together, wedrink.” Anita topped off their glasses. “So. Spill.”

The truth poured out as freely as the liquor. “Malachy Bane is a bastard who doesn’t listen to anyone but himself.”

“Cheers to that.” Anita clinked their glasses, her dark eyes gleaming with mirth. “Welcome to the gang, love.”

Vodka curdled in her gut. The last thing anyone would do is welcome her when Bane told them what she was. The Sanguimancer might stop her heart before the night was through and toast her death as a mercy. Mother would be disappointed not to have the pleasure of killing Cora herself.

She stood, swayed, and retreated into the club’s quiet, longing for her Memnomancer enchanted cloak hidden behind a brick wall, far away.

The grand piano, glossy and glorious, drew her like a beacon to the stage. She wove around empty tables and climbed the steps, skimming her fingers reverently along the keys.

The pianos at the orphanage and Felix’s squat had been out of tune and missing keys, and the Starlite’s piano was a dusty relic compared to this. She wanted to pour the dread and sorrow churning within her into music. What better way to spend her final moments? She played a few chords, luxuriating in the impeccable resonance. Rich. Layered. Evocative.

“You the new piano player?”

She yanked her hands away, whirling to the man she hadn’t noticed in the stage’s unlit recesses. “No. Sorry. Just admiring.”

He came forward into the lights, trailing a handful of wires. He was a couple inches shorter than her, not including the profusion of wiry brown curls standing on end atop his head. He patted the brown cloud of hair down to tame it. It didn’t work.

“You play well.” He scratched the goatee on his weak chin. The earnestness of his smile made Cora tense. “You ever play at a jazz club before?”

She retreated to the edge of the stage. “Sometimes.”

“I knew it.” His face split into a gap-toothed grin. “I could tell by your hands. Long and artistic and just made to play. I would’ve remembered hearing those hands play before. Whereabouts have you tickled the keys?”

“Here and there.”

Mistaking her evasion for coyness, his grin widened. “Any place I’ve heard of?”

Why is he paying me so much attention? Has Bane assigned him babysitting duty?

“The, er, Starlite Club.”

“You played at the Starlite?That seedy East End joint?” He whistled. “I just heard their drummerBarry Newman overdosed on coke, on stage. Can you believe it?”

“I can.” Barry’s death rattle had grown louder as his cocaine habit worsened. Still, she was sorry he’d passed. He’d never get that ciggy back now.

“Working there’s gotta be a wild story. How about I grab us some drinks and you tell me all about it?”

“Erm…”

“Ach, look at me, getting ahead of myself.” He offered his hand and a bashful smile. “I’m Guy. Guy Haviland. The electrician here.”

She shook his hand and jerked away at the shock of his touch. Static electricity. That was why his hair looked like someone had vigorously rubbed a balloon over it. He wasn’t just an electrician, but an Electromancer.

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