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Authors: J.I. Radke

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BOOK: Rooks and Romanticide
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He paused before turning out of Lovers' Lane, smiling over his shoulder down the narrow way at the undertaker. “After all, I wouldn't want a goddamned Ruslaniv getting a look at them, now would I?”

The undertaker giggled to himself and grabbed his cart by the handles. Cain disappeared around the corner of the alley, and the front wheels of the cart hit a little bump. A pasty white arm jostled and tumbled over the edge, hand dangling near the undertaker's muddy cloak. Strands of long golden hair hung like satin ribbons between the dirty fingers.

“Oops,” the undertaker cooed and pushed the girl farther into the cart so she wouldn't fall out, and the sound of his slightly off-key hums filled Lovers' Lane as he made his way out.

ACT ONE
RAW

I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect,

between the disaster and the atrocity.

Edgar Allan Poe,
The Black Cat

SCENE ONE

 

 

H
E
COULD
see his breath on the air, hanging there like a little cloud. Above the crooked rooftops stretched abandoned laundry lines and rusty pipes. Like drunken eyes, clouded windows looked down on the occasional fallen brick lying in the puddles as the chimney pots belched out their usual smoke and ash. The almost mechanical buzz of the evening coming to life rang in his ears: voices, rattling cabs, shouts, workers, laughter, hawkers. The sky was cold and gray, another dreary winter sunset.

Gravel and glass crunched underfoot. Levi lifted his toe to get a look at the mess on the ground. Trash, debris, the ensigns of a tenement block, the candy trail of the working class. And children played outside in this place—what a nightmare.

“And Levi—”

There was another shuffle of gravel as the rest of them paused, and Levi felt their eyes. He knew that even if the others would let it go without his reply, Eliott would not, and Eliott was nuisance enough without even trying, so why agitate him?

Levi turned slightly. Yes, they all clustered behind him—William, Eliott, the Witch, the Blond One, and the One with Glasses
—
staring over fur collars and militia jackets, and Eliott pushed those damn obnoxious tinted spectacles of his up out of his face, letting them perch atop his head as he dug around in his pockets for his mask.

“You're not gonna be all moody, right?” Eliott demanded.

The Witch snorted, shifting her weight to her other foot. “He's always moody,” she spat, with venom on her tongue. “Brooding about something or another. One shade of hatred here, another one there, and Daddy's never proud of him.”

Levi cut her a bitter glance, holding a hand out for Eliott to fork over his mask too. He took it, brushing past the Witch roughly. “Forgive me,” he husked. “I thought you'd have a better insult hiding somewhere in that dark and stinking pit you like to pretend is a heart.”

Ha! That was cruel. He was bound to get an earful for that one. Why did they call her the Witch again? Ah, because she was a well-endowed broad with no titles, and a knack for secrets and schemes, and… that's right, she'd been a dancer with Father Kelvin's circus before she'd taken up arms for the Ruslaniv crest—


Bastard
!” she growled, kicked up a leg, and snatched her pistol sword from her boot. It was one of her most prized possessions—other than, of course, those more
natural
gifts she hid under her clothes too.

Levi ignored the threat, taking his first look at the mask Eliott had designed for him. Black brocade with metallic thread, rook's feathers, cat's claws beaded into the shape of little skulls. It was gaudy and funereal and absolutely perfect.

“You're one to mock me!” The Witch was ranting and raving despite his obvious lack of interest. “You claim your heart is any less empty than mine? You, sitting there high and mighty, hiding in your father's shadow? The day I lie down and accept such slips of tongue from
you
, you demented little brat, will be a cold day in hell. And if you ever think that it makes you better than us because you inherited BLACK instead of earning its leadership, then I
pity
you, you selfish mongrel. I
pity
you! I pity
your father
for ever thinking you'd make a good leader for BLACK, because all you've ever proved of yourself is never speaking up and simply running off to the library to hide in a book once orders are complete. Ha! Oh, and let's not even touch on that time with poor sweet little Rosalie, when you were so far head over heels, your head was up your ass—”

Levi knew this one. The Witch had played it so often when it had been more relevant to the present.
Your head was so foggy with feelings and romance and love that you forgot your gunslinging side, and because of that unfortunate failure, Rosalie is dead!

Levi spun with a crunch of gravel beneath his heel, feeling all his hatred narrow itself down into one glance at the Witch.

“Oberon's just as dead,” he reminded in a voice almost like ice. To the side, the One with the Glasses smiled slightly, secretly, looking over at the Blond One, who lingered at his arm with those dark eyes.

The Witch lurched forward with her blade ready—but it was all intimidation, the usual fanfare, because as Eliott held her back with one arm around her waist and a rare look of seriousness on his face, she didn't try to break free. Instead she kept her burning gaze on Levi a moment longer, until William pulled her aside and motioned for her to put away her blade.

“That's enough,” Eliott demanded. “Good Christ, the two of you and your tension! Can't we go one day without you at each other's throats? You'd think you were related or once…
involved
.” He said the word with a little wrinkle in the nose, like it tasted bad. “Come
on
, now. This is supposed to be fun! There'll be lots of delicious things to eat, and free liquor, and at least a few good-looking guests. This isn't an assignment, it's
leisure
!”

Eliott threw his hands out, and it was quite dramatic, and quite comical, with the hand-painted sign on the building behind him proclaiming
Fierce and Fearless Ladies at Foxe's
, surrounded by stuttering gaslights. Beyond Cleveland Street, storefronts and clubs and hotels crumbled together as night fell. Innocent civilians retreated and the shadier faces emerged—a whole new catalogue of virtues and vices, launching the commotion and mishaps of the nightlife in neglected corners of the city. Ladybirds, cash carriers, toolers and palmers, and the flashy mobsmen organizing fights, this their haven on the cobbled streets. Drinks and drugs and duels and the flames of streetlamps slithering within their glass.

Eliott dug in his jacket again, distributing the rest of the masks. Black lace, silver chains, fake spiders, and velvet and leather.

“The scheme might be too obvious,” William insisted, frowning thinly. Behind him, along with the One with the Glasses, the Blond One pranced about, utterly pleased with his mask, peeking into dirty windows and trying to scare anyone who might be around.

Levi took a deep breath. The smoldering rage had died down into a nasty but more tolerable aftertaste, like the burn in the chest after a particularly rich meal. He tucked his mask into his jacket, patted William on the shoulder in reassurance, and sought out Eliott's eyes behind the black velvet and fur that framed them.

The scheme
. They were sneaking into a Dietrich ball, after all.

“It's a night of leisure,” Levi vowed, for Eliott's sake.

Eliott took him by the shoulders and shook gently. Buckles and holsters echoed the motion.

“That's the spirit!” Eliott cried, hooking an arm on Levi's shoulders and glancing around the group.

At his gaze, the Blond One snapped to attention and saluted, grinning. The One with the Glasses placed a hand on the Blond One's head and led him back into their midst. William ran his hands along his sides, his back, checking and rechecking the access of his weapons. The Witch glanced up at Levi from where she lounged on her haunches against the wall of Foxe's.

“Hey,” she mumbled, voice low and sulky.

She looked away with a frown like a stubborn child afraid to admit their fault, and Levi knew it was because of the outrageous way she'd just spoken to the Ruslaniv heir and how bold and stupid it had been. She tucked a few loose dark curls behind her ear, meeting his eyes again.

“We're going to eat, drink, and be merry, all right?” she said, echoing Eliott's sentiments. “And we're going to give those filthy Dietrichs a proper scare. Sounds like leisure to me! Wouldn't you agree…
Rook
?”

Levi didn't say anything.
The Rook.
The Witch, the Lion, the Spider, the Snake, the Wolf. All of them and their guns, the most feared and enigmatic of all the Ruslaniv gangs, like a bunch of ghosts whose reputations preceded them until they whipped out their guns and the other gangs bowed down to kiss their feet—
BLACK
.

And what would the world say if they knew the leader of the most notorious Ruslaniv gang in New London was actually the son of Lord Ruslaniv himself? What would they say after years of the Ruslaniv sons being removed from public view for their own safety, of Lord Ruslaniv's indignant protests: “I won't have my children involved in this petty blood thirst, this ridiculous feud between two equally great families, I won't have them see it or think of it or be caught in the middle of it!”

What would they say if they knew the hypocrisy and the lies, and the secrets that had been kept, so very carefully, swept under elegant eighth-century Persian rugs?

Levi sighed. His breath was a little cloud on the brisk night air. As the leader of BLACK, he had to brush off subordinates' attitudes in a responsible way. “That's the plan,” he agreed, looking out across the city, beyond the dirty rooftops and broken windows and sagging bell towers, out at the gated manor on the hill that was their destination.

“But I think first….” Levi turned into the racket of the street as night descended and a new world awoke. Some ladybird had emerged from Foxe's, swaying her hips and waving at possible clients with her sable scarf. Levi sighed again, crossing his arms and refocusing his attention on the matters at hand.

“I think,” he said again, a small smirk trying desperately to break free, “we need to find some more fitting attire for the occasion, hmm?”

“Party!” the Blond One cried.

The One with the Glasses tried to reach him, but he slithered past Eliott and William and threw his hands in the air, joining Levi under the eerie lights. “Listen, I want something purple, with a fur collar and proper little cameo buttons down the front—”

Dietrich Manor awaited them, overlooking New London with its gates open for the annual invite-only All Hallows' masquerade. And for the first time in ages, since perhaps even before the long and relentless feud between their families had begun, after paying a rampsman to pick pockets for invitations, BLACK had decided to attend. Unobtrusively, of course. Anonymously. Covertly. For some simple fun, a little spying, nothing more.

And why not be stylish about sneaking around?

SCENE TWO

 

 

S
HE
HUMMED
,
and even in the preparty rush, it seemed too loud. She tapped her toe on the polished floor, her ankles crossed, and ran her fingertips to and fro along the baluster overlooking the vestibule. Innocence. Sweet, blissful innocence.

But it was driving Cain mad, plucking at his nerves somehow, because it was the sweet blissful innocence of a girl about to brave the distance between lady and lord of the Dietrich manor again in tentative conversation.

“Cain….” Emily murmured.

Past the footsteps of busy servants and the echo of voices from below, Cain picked up on the nervousness in the back of her voice. It was almost swallowed by the rustle of silk and lace as she shifted, a soft lilt to her words as she tried her best to sound cool and collected and proper. She rolled her eyes around to meet his, waiting patiently for his sign to continue.

Cain just frowned at her and cocked a brow. Informality was the great luxury of being promised to a cousin.

“How is business?” Emily asked, finally making the leap.

Cain could tell by her rigid, serious tone that she dreaded talk of
business
. The question felt far too forced. She hated talk of
business
, maybe because she didn't believe in it, because she didn't feel it was her place, or maybe because she knew how important it was to Cain. The shyness around her great fiancé would break her like fine china thrown to the floor, surely, her with the pearls in her hair and the blonde curls swept up off her lily-white neck.

Ah, yes, thus was the luxury of being promised to a cousin, but room to be casual and conversational was no remedy for still feeling like an absolute stranger.

“As uneventful as always,” Cain replied flatly, squinting down into the vestibule as hired hands hurried to finish setting up tables and the footman adjusted his clothes at the door. Emily fidgeted. Cain dragged a thumbnail along the baluster, adding, “But that isn't exactly something a lady should worry herself over.”

He hoped it would save him from a bottomless pit of sugarcoated business talk, business talk watered down for a cousin trying so hard to mean something to the infamous and controversially young earl. She was trying so hard to mean as much to him as she had when they'd been small and she'd visited from the country, and they'd taken tea with their toys in the garden with the nurses and governesses fluttering around them like the butterflies.

BOOK: Rooks and Romanticide
6.65Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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