CHAPTER 9

  The Blue in the doorway is so tall that he has to lower his head to meet my eyes. When he does, I see the salty-smelling sweat; it clings to him like mist, streaming across his flushed skin, dripping from his mussed, dark brown hair, down the proud set of his face, and pooling at the base of his throat. His white dress shirt hangs open, with three buttons torn clean off. There’s a fresh cut above one eyebrow, two more slashes across his cheeks. From the smear of lipstick on his jaw and the fact that he was just with his fiancée, I don’t need to guess what he was doing.

  Edmund looks at me, his breath slightly ragged, his blue eyes cold as something floating in the sea. Then he turns to Charlotte, and his mouth slants in shock, as if he’s trying to match her to a memory that no longer fits. For a moment, something close to grief flickers across his face.

  Then his hands curl into fists. Rage flashes through him as his shoulders drop low, the kind of crouch you see in animals before they leap.

  I swing toward Charlotte protectively. She’s pinned to the table, arms stiff at her sides, jaw held at an upward tilt. Her gaze remains fixed on Edmund’s, even as her body betrays her. One foot jerks back, and her mouth twitches as if she wants to speak, maybe to explain, but she remains silent.

  Jack gets up from the table with a sudden, drunken stumble. “It was me, Ed. I invited them.”

  The fury on Edmund’s face falters, veers off course, and crashes headlong into confusion. His head whips toward Jack. “Why? Back to get burned twice?”

  Jack’s jaw tightens, then he sighs and throws his empty shot glass onto the table. “It’s messy, Ed. I know. But—”

  “Someone put a hit out on the Bliss girl,” Dickie cuts in, nodding at me. “Or that’s what Lady Charlotte claims.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t a hit,” Jack says. “Maybe they’d have been fine. But I wasn’t willing to take that gamble.”

  “Gamble?” Edmund turns on me, and as he steps closer, the air thickens with cologne-laced sweat and the woody tang of cigar smoke. I hold my breath, waiting for him to recognize me from Bogart’s broadcast. But his expression doesn’t change. He gives me a quick, feral once-over, the kind you give a carcass to see if the meat is suitable. Then he leans in, close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him. His nostrils flare as the stench from my train seat hits.

  “Well,” Edmund mutters, his voice dropping low, “it’s a gamble now.”

  He walks off. The lavatory door swings open, and he’s at the sink, wiping blood from his face as he kicks the door shut behind him.

  The second the door closes, I grab Charlotte by the wrist and drag her toward the exit. “Time to go.”

  “No, Lore.” She yanks back, her eyes half-lowered and still burning with shame. “It’s been a long time coming, okay? I can’t keep running.”

  “From that?” I jab a thumb at the lavatory door. “Yes, you fucking can, Char. He’s an animal.”

  “I told you it ended badly,” she says. “There’s no clean way out of this. So stay behind me—and please don’t make it any worse.”

  Charlotte pulls away from me and turns to Jack with a daggerlike glare. He’s hunched over the table, squinting at a toy carbon-fiber airplane as he adjusts its circuit with a multimeter.

  “I get it now,” she says. “This is your way of getting revenge for—”

  “If I wanted revenge, darling, I’d have taken it a year ago.” Jack calmly tests the toy airplane’s voltage. “Stop blaming me for the wreck you drove yourself into.”

  “That I drove into?”

  “You knew back at the Royce Club that Ed was done with you. I warned you when you asked for my help, but you still chose to come.”

  “Because I thought he knew I was coming.”

  Dickie, still chewing chocolate cake, mumbles, “Wait—why doesn’t Ed like you anymore?”

  Charlotte doesn’t answer him. All her focus, all her fury, is locked on Jack. “You should’ve told me Edmund wasn’t the one who invited us.”

  “That’s not the problem, darling. You are.”

  Edmund strides out of the lavatory, barely changed. He’s still a mess of blood, sweat, and tousled hair, vibrating with an energy that feels wired to detonate. The only differences are the smear of lipstick wiped from his jaw and the water streaks on his white dress shirt, a failed attempt to wash away the bloodstains.

  He crosses to the table, drinks half a pitcher of water, then snaps his fingers at Charlotte.

  She nods and exhales deeply through her nose. “Miss Waldsten,” she begins, working calm into her voice, “it is my pleasure to present Mr. Edmund Prew, a Blue first-year majoring in—”

  “My major is undecided,” Edmund says.

  Charlotte nods quickly and continues. “Mr. Edmund Prew is the son of Phillipa Prew and the late Lionel Prew. At twenty-one, he excels in various athletic pursuits, including crew, polo, shooting, and horse racing. Having won the Junior Blue Fencing Championship four years ago, he is also a skilled fencer who—”

  “Enough,” Edmund says. “Move on.”

  Charlotte swallows and pivots to me, rattling off my details like a script she’s trying not to mess up. We barely finish logging the introduction through our Blood Rings when Edmund steps past her and takes my hand. His grip is so firm that the edge of his Blood Ring digs into my skin. I flinch, but before I can pull away, he bows and presses a kiss to the back of my hand.

  “Pleasure, Miss Waldsten,” he says. “Now, sit.”

  We do. Charlotte braces herself, her fingers knotted in her lap as we take the chairs closest to the window. I rub my hand on my dress, as if I can wipe away the feeling of Edmund’s mouth.

  Across the table, Edmund, Jack, and Dickie fall into rhythm. The cards are pushed aside, and a vase of bright hydrangeas is moved to the edge. Edmund slides the half-eaten cake back to Dickie, who hands him a guillotine cutter. Edmund clips the end of his cigar, lights it, and exhales smoke that billows across the table. Then he tosses the lighter to Jack, who relights the cigarette hanging from his mouth.

  The three of them settle in, shoulder to shoulder, and stare us down from the far side of the table.

  “Miss Deering,” Edmund says, smoke curling off the edge of his sentence, “perhaps you can assist me in solving our dilemma.”

  “Fine.” Charlotte straightens. “But first—what the hell’s with all the frills? You never used formal language with me before. Why are you now?”

  Edmund looks at her, silent and cold, until she finally lifts her chin.

  “What dilemma?” she asks.

  “You wish to remain in my salon. I wish for you to leave. Who decides?”

  Charlotte’s lips press into a line, then loosen with effort. “It’s your room. I get that, okay. But as a lady, I should—”

  “Lady?” Edmund’s teeth close around the word like a trap. “Your behavior at The Royce Club suggests otherwise, Miss Deering, and as such, I am under no obligation to treat you as one.” He stubs out his cigar, grinding it into the ashtray until the tip gives out. “Seeing as you and Miss Waldsten are guests of Mr. Carroway, I shall not override his invitation by forcing you out. However, if you are going to stay, you will do so on my terms.”

  “What terms?”

  Edmund slams a shot glass onto the table so hard the hydrangea petals shudder.

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  “Ha.” Dickie slides the butter dish toward Charlotte. “You’re toast.”

  Charlotte stares down at the glass, her voice barely a rasp. “A shot duel?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the rules?”

  “Only one.” Edmund draws a small jar from his pocket and rolls it across the table.

  Inside, two pale yellow scorpions twitch against the glass, their claws tapping the sides, tails coiled high. Deathstalkers. Bred for sport and engineered to kill, their sting is lethal enough to take down half the students on this train.

  “Oh, piss off, Edmund.” Charlotte knuckles the jar away. “If you want me dead, why not do it yourself?”

  “If I wanted to, I would.”

  “Stop being dramatic, Lady Charlotte.” Dickie flips open a polished wooden box containing two syringes. “We’ve got anti-venom.”

  Charlotte exhales a scoff. “Yeah, well, I don’t like pricks. Not the needle kind, not the stinging kind, and definitely not the walking, talking kind.” She rounds on Jack, eyes flashing. “You’re really going to let him do this?”

  “It’s your own choice, darling. Just like it was back then.”

  “So, it is revenge.”

  Jack stiffens, and for an instant, I glimpse past the drunken haze. Anger, or maybe sadness, like an animal licking its wounds in the dark. “Call it what you want,” he mutters. “No point trying to change your mind.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because the thief thinks everyone steals.”

  Charlotte’s mouth parts, shocked.

  Dickie’s brow crinkles. “Wait, who’s a thief?”

  “Jack…” Charlotte’s voice breaks on his name. “I was hurt, all right? I just wanted—”

  She stops short when Jack grips the edge of the table and rises halfway from his seat. Beside him, Edmund burns just as fiercely. There’s nothing drunk in their stares now, only focus, like Dad back in the hunting blind at home.

  I move behind Charlotte and reach for my daffodil brooch. My fingers, slick with sweat, slip twice before I feel the button click and see the camera in the petals start recording. I don’t know what Edmund expects to get out of this challenge, but every instinct screams at me to get it on film.

  Even though Charlotte told me to stay behind her and let her handle the situation, I can’t sit still and watch Jack and Edmund gang up on her. I take a steady breath and brush my fingers against Edmund’s sleeve.

  “If you’re not throwing us out, then what’s the point of the challenge?”

  The look Edmund gives me is unsettling, as though something behind his eyes is pacing. “We are acquaintances, Miss Waldsten. Address me accordingly.”

  Even if we’re acquaintances, I shouldn’t have to use formal language in a private setting. Neither should he. Blues aren’t bound by the behavior laws, so he’s using formal language to condescend and assert his power.

  “Perhaps I would, sir, if I knew your name.”

  He blinks, briefly stunned, as if I told him his blood wasn’t blue. Then he turns fully to me. “We were already introduced, Miss Waldsten. Edmund Prew. But to you, Mr. Prew. Is it a difficult name to remember?”

  “No. I would say it is easy to forget.”

  A strange expression crosses his face, caught between flustered and amused, before his features harden again. “Well, it won’t be easy if you forget it a second time.”

  I nod, jaw clenched. The cut above his eyebrow is bleeding again, a thin blue slash that glints at me like a threat, reminding me that my seat at this table is borrowed. One more wrong word, and I’m out.

  Edmund turns back to Charlotte. “The challenge is simple. If you win, you and Miss Waldsten shall each be granted a request. If I win, I shall claim one from each of you.” He extends a hand, palm open, as if offering something generous. But I know better. There’s no reason to include me in this deal unless he already knows what he wants.

  That’s fine.

  I know what I want, too.

  “No,” Charlotte snaps, shoving her chair back so hard it screeches. “You know what? Screw this. Screw it all. I’m not playing—and I’m not staying.”

  “That would be unwise,” Edmund says.

  “Why, Mr. Prew?” I cut in. “Do you intend to report us for trespassing?”

  He grunts. “There is little use if you are dead.”

  “What makes you so certain I will die if I return to the green carriage?” I rest my hand on my purse as if it holds something sharper than it does. “I am not unarmed.”

  “Indeed. But of what use is a saber if you do not know where to point it?”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “My meaning, Miss Waldsten, is that I know how the Copper intends to kill you.”

  “Because you are involved?”

  “Because the evidence is stinking up my salon.”

  I glance at my dress, where the foul smell still lingers, seeping through the fabric onto my skin. Whatever it is, it can’t be lethal on contact, or I’d already be dead.

  “See,” Dickie says, nudging Charlotte’s arm. “I wasn’t swatting at flies.”

  Charlotte looks over my dress, now worried. “What is it, Edmund? Some kind of chemical?”

  He leans back, a slow curve forming on his lips. “I have no desire to offer aid to you or Miss Waldsten without terms.”

  “This is not about aiding me,” I say. “There is a student in the green carriage. Miss Bradford. She is a target, too, and if we do not act, she will die.”

  “Then perhaps you should stop spending time you cannot afford.”

  Edmund tosses the jar of scorpions back to Charlotte. She catches it with a wince, bracing as if it might pop open and spill the scorpions. A large, dark vein jumps in her forehead, the same one that always appears when she’s scared past pretending.

  “All right, Edmund.” She sets the jar on the table as if it just started ticking. “I’ll do it on one condition. Whatever the loser owes has to be legal. No blood. No bullshit.”

  “Or forced intimacy,” I say.

  Edmund cuts me a look like I’m a mosquito buzzing too close. He gets up, and as soon as his body leaves the chair, it relaxes, as if he’s not made for staying still.

  “I accept,” he says. “Shall we formalize the agreement?”

  Charlotte nods.

  We record the terms in our Blood Rings. Once finished, Edmund closes the space between us and pulls me into an embrace, the customary gesture to seal an agreement. His skin is still hot and sweaty, and his grip is too tight, as if he’s pouring his disdain into the formality. I squeeze him right back, harder and harder, until he stiffens.

  “Yours is not the embrace of a lady,” Edmund murmurs.

  “Nor is yours the embrace of a gentleman,” I reply.

  “I was a gentleman when I boarded this train. A lot has happened since then.”

  I glance up at him, unsure what he means, but there’s no time to ask. He pulls away and moves on to Charlotte. Their embrace is awkward and brisk, so fast I almost miss capturing it on my brooch camera. Then Edmund walks to the door and speaks to a Pinkie with freckles and a nest of dark curls. The exchange is brief. Whatever is said ends with the Pinkie stepping out.

  At the table, Jack pours out shots, five for each player.

  Dickie perches on the edge, watching like a judge. “Some of these glasses are fuller than others,” he says, tilting one toward the light. “As a just man, I can’t ignore the unfairness.”

  “Yeah, well, as a drunk man, this is as good as it’s gonna get.” Jack takes a long swig from the bottle.

  Lightning flashes behind the window, drawing my gaze outside. The rain has eased enough to reveal layers of forest, cliffs, and a jagged coastline curving toward the horizon. The sun breaks through the clouds like a cracked yolk, spilling golden light over the energy shield as it rises impossibly high from the ocean. This is the west end of the Civilized World, while my family’s estate is thirty miles from the east end.

  And somewhere out there, Jane Bradford is still in the green first-year carriage. Waiting. Or already dead.

  Edmund sits, plants his feet wide, and rolls up his shirt sleeve. Jack unscrews the jar, tipping it until the two scorpions spill out, their legs whispering over the wooden table. Dickie and I both jolt back. Edmund stretches out his arm, motionless even as one deathstalker skitters up his wrist. The scorpion’s tail curves high over its back, twitching side to side, the stinger ready.

  “Careful, Ed,” Dickie mutters. “That one’s got mischief in its eyes. If it stings, are you gonna follow tradition?”

  “Down to the swallow,” Edmund says, his eyes locked on Charlotte. “Shall we begin?”

  Her arm twitches anxiously. “I… yeah. Just give me a second.” She flattens her palm on the table with a wince. The scorpion responds immediately, drawn by her body heat, darting around an ashtray and scurrying up her wrist. Charlotte’s breath catches. Through gritted teeth, she inches her hand toward the nearest shot glass, every movement stretched thin.

  “Good health,” Edmund says with a wink.

  He raises his glass, and the deathstalker on his arm goes still. Its tail arches higher, poised to strike, but Edmund continues lifting the glass until the rim reaches his mouth. With a smooth tilt, he throws back the shot.

  “Dead easy,” Jack says.

  “Wow. A real touch of terrific,” Dickie adds.

  But not for us.

  I nod at Charlotte, trying to look reassuring. I know I owe her for this. I’ll owe her until the day I die.

  When Edmund sets his glass back on the table, she picks up hers. Her hand is steady, but I notice the vein in her forehead pulsing again as she lifts the shot to her lips. The scorpion stays still at first, then, as the glass reaches her chest level, it scurries down her arm, its pincers flared wide. Charlotte freezes and bites her lip until a bead of green blood glints between her teeth.

  I clamp my mouth shut, strangling any sound that might startle the scorpion. The seconds drip by, and as they do, I brace myself for a scream, a signal that we’ve lost.

  But instead, I hear a bang, loud enough to shake the walls and rattle the windows. It’s coming from outside the train.

  Everyone moves at the same time. Charlotte and Dickie dive under the table, while Jack lunges forward and traps the deathstalkers under a pair of whiskey glasses. Edmund flinches, shaking his arm as if to shake off pain. His hand fumbles for the antivenom, and he plunges one syringe into his thigh with a grunt.

  “Lore, get down!” Charlotte yells from the floor.

  I drop into a crouch and scramble to the window. My knees grind against the carpet, tearing my stockings, but I don’t stop. I don’t even breathe until I’m peering through the glass.

  Outside, the shield crackles like a broken power line. Tremors ripple across the ocean as the impact erupts into a blinding halo of energy. Sparks burst. Fragments fly. Whatever hit the shield is shredding through it like a chainsaw buzzing through wood.

  The train jolts forward, gaining speed until shrieks echo from the salons down the corridor. Sirens blare along the coastline, and above, I spot our patrol jets, sleek and AI-controlled. They dive toward the shield, engines roaring as they assess the damage.

  The train’s windows darken as a shell of interlocking armor encloses us. The sounds of the sirens and the jets vanish, all swallowed at once. What remains is the fear, confusion, and silence, balanced like a blade before the drop.