Page 47 of Better in Black
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The Hell Ruelle was relatively quiet—it was, after all, late morning on a Tuesday, not the most preferred hour for drinking, gambling, carousing, musical performance, orgies, the use of illicit addictive substances, or any of the Ruelle’s other main activities. Nevertheless, its large main room was hardly empty: Here and there Downworlders huddled at tables in conversation or negotiation, and perhaps a dozen were scattered across the various gambling tables. The stage, however, was empty, and in the place of the usual musical accompaniment was only the clink of glasses and the rustling of conversation echoing from the high ceilings. Thomas noted that the curtains remained drawn, even with the sunlight outside; the Ruelle was not to be exposed to the rules and order of the daytime, whatever the actual hour.
It took a moment to spot Zachary, but Thomas had been right. After all, there weren’t very many places in London that Zachary had even heard of. He was perched by himself at a vingt-un table toward the back of the room. As they approached—earning wary glances from the patrons, who as always were suspicious of visiting Shadowhunters—the scene became more clear: Zachary was drinking lemon squash from a paper straw, moving cards around the table at random, and trying to bet with candy from his pockets.
To Thomas’s relief, the dealer at the table was someone he knew: Claude Kellington, the werewolf in charge of the Ruelle’s entertainments. He was speaking to Zachary in a hushed voice. Thomasthought he had probably intervened to prevent Zachary from making more of a scene. When he saw Thomas and Alastair approaching, his eyebrows went up in an expression that combined relief and annoyance.
Thomas and Alastair took the seats immediately to Zachary’s left and right. Before either could speak, Kellington hissed at them. “I should have known this was somehow your lot’s fault. Anytime there’s trouble here, it’s Nephilim.”
“What about when those flame-sprites came from out of town last year and set all the drapes on fire?” Thomas said lightly.
Kellington scowled. “I suppose Anna Lightwood told you about that. Nevertheless. By sheer volume, Shadowhunter trouble outweighs all other trouble a hundred to one. So. What’s the situation with this madman exactly? Warlock enchantment? Needs to speak to a faerie monarch? Murder investigation?”
“This is Zachary,” Alastair said. “A Shadowhunter.” Zachary flipped some cards over and sipped at his lemon squash serenely.
Kellington peered at Zachary, perhaps wondering why he had no visible runes. “He wouldn’t even tell me his name. Hypatia’s at her shop today, so if it’s warlock magic you require, you won’t find it here.”
Thomas opened his mouth to say that wasn’t necessary, but Alastair, to his surprise, leaned forward and spoke sharply. “Look here, Kellington.” Kellington looked as surprised as Thomas. “I know you think of this place as outside the real world, outside the Law. But it is a magical establishment in London and it operates only by the forbearance of the London Enclave.”
Kellington’s eyes narrowed. “Are you threatening us?”
“I am only stating facts. Facts we both agree are true. And the fact is that you’ve no cause for complaint. How long has Zacharybeen here? Ten minutes? And representatives of the Enclave have already shown up to deal with him. I’d call that good service, is what I’d call that.”
“I say!” Zachary suddenly spoke up. “This man is right! I didn’t come here to be treated in this manner. I don’t know what kind of establishment you’re running here, but my glass of squash is empty.” He rattled the glass and glared.
“Zachary,” Alastair said calmly, “you don’t need to participate. I’m taking care of it, and we’re going to leave in a moment.”
“I’m a respectable man!” Zachary asserted, drawing himself up. “I demand to be treated with the attention I deserve. I pay my taxes.”
Kellington frowned. He mouthedDo Shadowhunters pay taxes?at Thomas, who held up his hands to ward off having to engage.
“We’ll get you a new lemon squash when we get home,” Alastair told Zachary.
“And more of these cards,” Zachary commanded, tossing a few into the air. “I wish to play cards. I am a gentleman and a gentleman likes to play cards.”
“Whatever you like,” Alastair said impatiently, “only we have to go home.”
“I’ve never had such wretched service in my life,” Zachary cried at Kellington. “I’ll have your job for this!”
“For what?” Kellington said, more baffled than angry.
“Leave the man alone,” Alastair said, more angry than baffled. “He’s just doing his job.”
“Which is what? Ignoring my need for more lemon squash? Ignoring my need for new cards, since these have become unusably sticky? By Jove, I’ll have your job too! And yours!” he added in Thomas’s direction. “The King will hear of this! I will report you to Admiral Nelson and directly to the Duke of Wellington!”
Patrons at other tables were beginning to peer over at them. “Quiet, will you,” Kellington hissed at Zachary. “Get ahold of yourself.”
“Not since Waterloo has such a disaster of support been committed against an Englishman!”
“No,” Alastair was definitely yelling at this point, “the English won Waterloo!”
“Get ahold of yourself!” Kellington said again, now shouting himself. When Zachary opened his mouth again, Kellington reached out and slapped him across the cheek.
Zachary jerked back, his eyes wide. Then he burst into tears.
Thomas watched the anger drain out of Alastair. “Now look what you’ve done,” he said wearily to Kellington.
Kellington again looked to Thomas for support that Thomas was in no way going to give him. “He was hysterical,” Kellington said.
