Chapter 48: Fighting Kismet

Lynn Crane

The air in my penthouse is always at a perfect seventy-two degrees, cool and sterile as a morgue. A necessary defense against the sweaty, desperate heat of the city panting against the windows below. But right now, with Jack and his little stray standing on my marble floor, the room feels ten degrees colder. It’s the chill they brought with them, the one that clings to people who have seen the other side of the veil and didn’t much care for the view.

I let my smile spread, slow and easy. It’s a tool, my smile. A scalpel. I use it to make the first cut.

"Aw, Jack, owing me isn't that bad," I purr, the words sliding like silk off a blade. "You lost your bet, but you did help me win mine."

Jack just stares, his face a roadmap of pain and exhaustion. He doesn’t know about the bets, of course. He thinks he came here of his own free will. Men like Jack always think that. It's adorable.

My gaze slides to Damon, who is leaning against the bar, looking for all the world like a bored GQ model who just happens to be able to snap a man’s neck with his bare hands. He gives a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head. He’d bet Jack would lose his nerve, that he’d run until The Stones finally cornered him in some dusty shithole and put him in the ground. Damon can be so cynical.

"My little victory will be oh so sweet," I say, my voice light, but my eyes are still on Damon. He owes me a new set of throwing knives. The ones with the mother-of-pearl inlay. He knows it, too. A little sigh escapes his lips.

I turn my attention to the others. Bastian, my great, silent mountain, stands by the door, a monolith in a Tom Ford suit. Ardin is a ghost in the corner, and Serge… Serge is watching Maddie with an artist’s appreciation for her sharp, broken edges.

"Bastian, darling," I say, without looking at him. "Be a dear and get our guests something to drink. The good scotch. They look like they've earned it."

He moves without a word. He is my wall.

"Serge," I continue, my voice still soft, "my feet are simply killing me."

He doesn't hesitate. He crosses the room, kneels on the Aubusson rug, and begins to massage my feet with a practiced, focused pressure. He is my blade.

"And Damon," I finish, finally letting my smile reach him. "You can fetch me my cigarettes. The French ones."

He pushes off the bar, the picture of aggrieved elegance. He is my poison. Ardin, my shadow, remains where he is. I don't need to ask him for anything. He is already doing what he does best: watching, listening, remembering. He is my memory.

I let Jack and Maddie watch the little tableau. Let them see. This is not a partnership. This is a coronation. They are not my equals. They are my subjects. My very, very useful subjects.

When the drinks are poured and my cigarette is lit, I turn my full attention back to Jack. The real show is about to begin.

"Now," I say, leaning back as Serge’s strong hands work the tension from my arches. "Tell me everything about you and Maddie. Spare no detail. I know the future I see when I look at you both. I just want to hear it from your lips."

It’s not a lie. I don’t see the future like some cheap boardwalk psychic reading tea leaves. But I see the shape of things. The patterns. I look at them and I see two jagged, broken pieces of the same pot, and I see the ghost of the man who smashed it standing over them. I see a story that is all blood and gasoline, and I know, with a certainty that hums in my bones, that it ends in a fire. My fire.

Jack starts to talk.

He tells me their story, the real one this time, not the sanitized summary he gave me before. He speaks of his Sarah, and I can practically smell the phantom scent of her perfume, the ghost of a life that was clean and good and horribly, horribly fragile. The words come out of him like he’s pulling teeth, each one a fresh agony.

I watch him, but I’m also watching her. Maddie. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t look away. She watches him with a fierce, protective stillness that is more telling than any declaration. She’s his anchor. Or maybe he’s hers. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the chain between them. It’s forged in grief and tempered in violence. Unbreakable.

He tells me about Calico, about the slow-dawning horror of realizing the town was a cage. He talks about the Mongols, about the fight in the desert. And as he speaks, I see the Dark Rose in the lines of Maddie’s mouth, in the hard, flat look in her eyes. I know that look. It’s the look of a survivor. It’s the look my father had. It's the look I see in the mirror every goddamn morning.

He tells their story, and I listen to the music beneath the words. It’s a funeral dirge, but it’s got a hell of a backbeat. It’s the song of two people who have lost everything and have therefore become terrifyingly free. They have nothing left to lose but each other, and that makes them the most dangerous kind of weapon. The kind that doesn't care about collateral damage. The kind that will burn down the world to keep one single flame alive.

Kismet, I think again. The Stones, in their arrogance, didn't just kill Jack's wife and set Maddie on this path. They created me a predator. A matched set.

When he finally falls silent, the story is hanging in the air, ugly and beautiful and shimmering with rage. The room is quiet, save for the clink of ice in a glass and the distant wail of a siren rising from the streets below.

I take a long, slow drag from my cigarette and exhale a plume of smoke.

"Good," I say, and my voice is as soft as falling ash. "That’s a proper haunting. Pain like that… you can build on a foundation like that."

I look from Jack’s hollowed-out eyes to Maddie’s defiant ones. They think they’ve come to me for help. They think this is their story. They don’t understand yet. Their story is over. It ended in a dusty shed in the middle of nowhere, when they showed each other their scars.

"You're not just going to be my weapon," I tell them, my voice a vow, a prophecy. "You're going to be my masterpiece."

I smile then, a real one this time. It feels like showing my teeth.

"Welcome to the Underworld Mafia," I say. "The real work starts now."