Chapter Text
The rain had been falling since six. By nine, it was a proper storm, the kind that emptied the streets of New Navarre the way a stray gunshot would.
Violet Sorrengail considered this a professional courtesy.
She was on the fourth floor of the Aldenmere Building, in a room that smelled of mildew and old cigarette smoke, which was fine; that meant fewer eyes would see the flash. The window was open two inches — enough for the barrel of the Springfield to clear the sill without catching. Andarna, the golden dragon hatchling, lay coiled along the radiator behind her. She was about the size of a large housecat, scales dimming and brightening in slow pulses like something breathing underwater. The dragon had not moved in forty minutes.
Neon from the Regent Theater bled across the puddles below, turning the street into a river of red and gold, which sat cleanly next to the Harwick Hotel. Across the street and six floors up, through the amber squares of the hotel's windows, the young playboy, Jack Barlowe, was having what appeared to be an excellent evening, despite the storm.
He had champagne. He had company, a dame on each arm, and absolutely no idea that he was in her crosshairs.
"Hé Violette!” called Ridoc Gamlyn, a little too loudly for Violet's liking.
He lounged in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame. His dark curls poked out beneath a fedora tilted at a reckless angle, and his charcoal pinstripe suit was sharp enough to pass for respectable until he opened his mouth.
“Whatever you're about to ask, the answer is no,” she replied flatly.
"But I ‘ave yet to ask anything."
"You were going to ask why Mr. Barlowe is being removed."
Ridoc raised an eyebrow and lit a cigarette.
Violet narrowed her eyes before rolling them. "Shot. If the euphemism was unclear."
Ridoc frowned before blowing out the thin line of smoke from his mouth.
“Barlowe is the son of the state senator, no?” he asked. “ I figured La Patronne would use his life as leverage.”
“As The General told us before,” said Violet, never taking her eyes from the scope. Through its lens, she could see Jack Barlowe was now halfway through his cigar. “Anyone who walks away takes the elevator to the sky. It’s how the family keeps a monopoly on powerful Tethers.” She adjusted the magnification of her scope, “and the feds away from Basgiath.”
Ridoc took another drag from his cigarette.
“Seems excessive.”
“It’s business,” she said flatly.
Ridoc gaze went down to Andarna, still curled up like a cat by the radiator.
“Suppose so,” he said, looking back up across the street at the hotel. “Still, his signet was ‘so-so’ from what I have seen of it. Plus, ‘is bonded was a lapin.”
Violet made a breathless sigh. “It’s called a Jackalope.”
“So, a lapin with antlers. Not something that would make you sleep with one eye open. Now Aotrom.” Ridoc made a side glance at the river where the Parapat Bridge connected two islands. “He is scary. A beast out straight out of-”
“You were supposed to call Barlowe two minutes ago,” Violet cut across him before he could finish.
Ridoc looked down at his pocket watch. “Ah…right”
His thumb snapped it shut with a soft click, and he walked over to the telephone on the other side of the room.
“The door,” said Violet.
Ridoc stopped halfway and muttered a curse in Poromish. “You could at least say ‘please,’ Vi. Saying it is not poisonous,” he said, shutting the door quietly.
He walked back towards the telephone resting atop a dusty end table. The thing looked nearly as abandoned as the apartment itself. He lifted the receiver and made four turns on the dial.
“Harwick Hotel, manager's office.”
“Yes, Mademoiselle. If you could be so kind as to connect me with Monsieur Barlowe Jr. His friend Tyann wants to discuss a new investment,” said Ridoc, tapping the end of his cigarette on the ashtray. “Best discussed over the private line, as he put it.”
There was a pause from the receiver before the woman's voice came through in a static garble.
“One moment, please.”
Across the street, Violet watched one of the hotel attendants enter the suite. The young man spoke quietly into Jack's ear.
Jack sneered at the attendant and snapped at him, which got some small nervous giggles from the girls that were still lounging on the expensive sofa.
The attendant nervously pointed toward the balcony and then whispered something to Jack’s ear. He looked annoyed at the interruption. He said something to the women beside him, drained the remainder of his champagne, and rose from his chair.
Violet shifted the rifle fraction by fraction, letting the crosshair follow Barlowe’s blonde crown of hair, making his way towards the balcony of his penthouse. He finally stepped out onto the lit balcony, rain softly tapping on the metal awning. One of the women called after him, which he waved dismissively without turning around.
The balcony telephone rested on a small wrought-iron table beneath the awning. Violet saw Jack pick up the phone, practically ripping the transmitter off the hook.
"This had better be important, Tyann!" Jack's voice barked through the earpiece
“Jack! Mon ami!” said Ridoc brightly. "You sound terrible. Here I was worried the storm spoiled your evening. It is, as the people say, ‘raining cats & dogs’ right now.”
Through the scope, Violet saw Jack almost drop the phone's transmitter. Every trace of confidence evaporated from his expression. “G-Gamlyn!? How did you…why-no! I’m out! I'm fuckin’ out, you hear me!? I already told Sorrengail about the payment!”
“ Oui-oui, and she’s very grateful for your contribution before quitting. The only thing is…” Ridoc paused.
“Is what!?” Jack's voice sounded more panicked now.
“Well, you see, Siefert and Tyann led us to the wrong location and-”
“No! You didn’t-”
“-Relax frère, La Patronne is not unreasonable. Mistakes are a part of everyday life, are they not? All she wants is the correct address.”
There was a long pause on the other end, but Violet saw Jack's head turn nervously. Most likely searching for the glint of a scope.
“Just…the address?” Jack finally said.
“Just the address,” Ridoc said again.
“Then fuck you, Gamlyn!” Jack's voice blared so loudly that Ridoc actually turned his ear away. “You could’ve just made an appointment like everyone else!”
“But it is lovely to hear your voice, frère,” said Ridoc. “And you are always so busy with your business ventures, investments, and whatnots. I could not just wait a whole month. ”
“Just get a damn pen!”
Ridoc grinned and moved the ashtray, making it sound like he was about to write something down.
“It's nine-fifteen-”
“Sorry, nine-fifty,” Ridoc interrupted.
“No! Nine-fift-”
“Ah, you meant fourteen.”
Violet heard Jack snarl in frustration, barking out slur after slur at Ridoc, which he laughed at quietly. She turned her eyes down to Andarna and lightly rubbed her foot against her scales.
The small dragon's head rose lazily and looked up at her.
“Silver-one?” the small dragons thought to her.
“How much longer til the next bolt?” Violet thought back.
Andarna looked back at her scales, now changing color from gold to a slight greyish black.
“Three minutes, from what my scales tell me,” she thought back to Violet.
Violet nodded and held up three fingers right at her head level for Ridoc to see.
He nodded and turned back to the phone, biting back a laugh.
“I am sorry, frère. My Narvaish, it is not very good.”
“That’s not even what the common language is called!” barked Jack’s voice. “Now it’s spelled C-I-”
“-C is the one that looks like the moon from the newspaper comics, no?”
“I swear to Malek- urgh- Yes, you moron!”
Violet narrowed her eyes and also desperately wished for earplugs to appear out of thin air magically.
“You’re losing focus,” came the low rumble of Tairn’s thoughts in her skull. The black dragon materialized right beside Violet with a low electric hum, appearing around the size of a carriage horse. Despite being the biggest known dragon, about the size of a small building normally, the old lizard still felt the need to be as big as possible, even if it meant cramming up the already small space of the apartment.
“Might I suggest, then, you keep your thoughts quieter. She thought back.
Tairn let out a low, vibrating huff that rattled the loose change in her pockets, but he fell silent. His red eyes flicked towards the rifle. The runes along its sleek barrel began to glow white-blue and spark as he let his magic channel through Violet's signet.
All of Andarna’s scales were now almost halfway grey, slowly changing color each passing second. “Just another minute”
Violet took a deep breath and blocked out Ridoc's voice and Jack's seething. She kept her left elbow planted firmly on the wooden sill, letting the building's masonry carry the weight of the Springfield. Her shoulder joint was already screaming from the forty-minute wait in the damp air, a familiar, grinding ache that she ignored with practiced apathy. Beneath her shirt, stiff leather braces kept her collarbone tightly locked in place—a necessary precaution. Without them, the recoil would rip her right shoulder out of its socket.
She shifted her weight slightly, wincing as her hip gave a dull pop.
“Your spine is misaligned,” Tairn grumbled in her mind. “Brace yourself correctly, Silver-one, or the recoil will do it for you.”
“Your chiropractic advice is…noted, Tairn,” she thought back, subtly re-aligning her posture. “As is the fact that your commentary just vibrated my crosshairs off the target.”
Tairn let out a disapproving puff of smoke that left a thin film of ash on the windowsill
Violet retrained the scope back onto Jack. He was practically vibrating with rage on the penthouse balcony from Ridoc’s stalling. Despite the low light of the balcony, she could see his face turn a violent shade of purple as he slammed his free fist onto the iron table.
“C-I-A-N-D-E!” Jack's scream blared from the receiver. “Ciande Logistics! The warehouse by the North Docks! Are you writing this down frog-fucker?!”
“I think I know this place, the one with the cafe,” said Ridoc, tapping the ashes off the tip of his cigarette into the ashtray. “You would not, by chance, be able to get me a reservation?”
“Is this a fucking joke to you, Gamlyn!? Just cause your boss is untouchable doesn't mean you are! If you think for one second I won't have my father send the feds after you, you've got another thing comin’ pal!”
Ridoc chuckled into the transmitter. “Speaking of your dear old père. What does he think about the article about you in next week's newspaper? ”
“What are you talking about!?” demanded Jack.
“The article about you. I heard from Tyann that The Scribe was writing a flattering piece about you. It is, promotion for your father's campaign, as he told me.”
There was a pause from Jack, and Violet could see his shoulders visibly tense. “...are you….threatening me? On a recorded line?”
“Oh?” Ridoc said, subconsciously tilting his head. “No-no, Jack. I am just surprised you did not know either.”
The last sliver of gold on Andarna’s scales went dark, settling into a cold, shadow-slate grey. “Now, Violet!”
The moment Violet squeezed the trigger, Tairn's power surged through the runes carved into the rifle's barrel. White-blue light raced across the metal, crackling between the engravings as the trapped lightning finally found its way out at the muzzle. In that exact microsecond, the night sky over New Navarre lit up like a firework show. A blinding flash of white-blue lightning cracked directly overhead, its deafening, natural boom perfectly swallowing the roar of the Springfield.
Jack turned suddenly toward the avenue, his face freezing in panic with wide eyes; perhaps he caught the briefest blue glare from across the avenue.
It didn't matter at that point.
The lightning-infused bullet tore straight through his skull before his expression could even shift from frustration to panic.
He went instantly rigid, stumbled back against the iron railing, and pitched over into the open air. His body was still in free fall when a massive, ink-black tendril whipped out from the river below, perfectly camouflaged against the black, stormy sky. It snatched him cleanly out of the night sky before he could even hit the surface. One of the ten that belonged to Ridoc’s kraken, Aotrom.
Frost raced across Jack's suit the instant Aotrom seized him. By the time the tendril dragged him beneath the surface, ice had already begun entombing the corpse.
“-I might even say that I am shocked, frère. Stories like yours usually end up as front page news…Hello? Jack?” Ridoc hung up the phone with a frown and crossed his arms. “Bah, he hung up on me, can you believe that, Vi? And they say we Poromish are the rude ones.”
“We’re done here. Signal to Sawyer to pick us up across from the theater,” said Violet, who was already disassembling the Springfield.
With three swift, metallic twists, the long, runed barrel detached from the receiver. She slid it into a heavy, silk-lined sheath, snapping a curved wooden handle onto the end of Ridoc’s umbrella. Violet then grabbed the heavy wooden stock and receiver, placing them straight into the velvet interior of a weathered saxophone case that was at her feet. She snapped the brass latches shut with a definitive clack.
“Take these,” Violet ordered, unbuckling the stiff leather support braces beneath her shirt with a sharp tug, then peeling off the reinforced, heavy-canvas trench coat.
Ridoc caught the coat, grunting under its unexpected weight. “Mon dieu. Our dear comrade Jack has just died. Does he not deserve a proper send-off?”
“Given that he was conversing with you, I’d say I gave him more of a mercy killing,” she said flatly as the heavy coat left her shoulders.
The dim light of the room caught the fabric beneath her sleek, ink-black silk gown. It defied the conservative cuts of the New Navarre elite; the neckline was sharp and architectural, the back cut dangerously low to reveal the stark lines of her spine, and the fabric clung to her like liquid shadow.
Violet packed the saxophone case and the umbrella, shoving both into Ridoc's hands. “Get going.'”
Ridoc gave her an annoyed glare before he opened the door to the abandoned apartment for her. “Of course, your Majesté,” he said, giving an over-exaggerated bow.
Violet rolled her eyes and walked past him, catching the middle finger he flashed in her peripheral vision. As they approached the elevator, the air in the hallway shifted with a sudden electric snap. Tairn’s massive form fractured, dissolving into a dense cloud of midnight-black dust, while Andarna broke apart into a swirling mist of dull gold. The twin clouds whipped across the space, melting directly into the skin of Violet's bare back.
The familiar, white-hot burn of their marks flaring to life managed to dull the grinding ache of her right shoulder completely. It was a bizarrely therapeutic pain
The iron cage of the elevator groaned as it dropped them into the rainy alleyway behind the Aldenmere Building. The moment they stepped out into the damp chill, Ridoc snapped open the curved handle of the walking umbrella, the runed barrel of the Springfield perfectly hidden beneath the black silk canopy. He held it high over Violet's head, shielding her bare shoulders and ink-black gown from the downpour as they hurried across the pavement.
A sleek, midnight-blue sedan pulled up to the curb across from the glowing neon marquee of the Regent Theater. The exhaust puffed into the cold, damp air like a dragon’s breath. Keeping the umbrella angled perfectly against the wind, Ridoc stepped ahead and opened the car door for her.
"You're late, Sawyer," Violet said, sliding into the dry leather seat.
“Not our problem, sweethart,” he said, meeting Violet's gaze in the rearview mirror. “Blame those two lugs that Barlowe kept around. Absolute pair of useless articles."
Beneath the low brim of his newsboy cap, Sawyer’s youthful, square-jawed face was smudged with grease, his brown eyes holding that familiar, stubborn grit Violet has seen since they were kids. He still looked more like a neighborhood grease monkey than one of her mother's cleaners; the freckles didn't help that case, despite the stubble and broad shoulders.
Even with his sleeves rolled up, the dark, swirling ink of his bond mark was visible on his forearm, peeking out just above the scarred, metallic sheen of his prosthetic right leg—the result of a messy run-in with a rival family's Tommy gun last spring.
“Spent the last twenty minutes tryin' to squeeze a straight word out of 'em down by the alley wire,” Sawyer grumbled.
He swung the wheel hard, pulling the heavy sedan out into the flooded avenue. The tires threw up a great, roaring roost of red-and-gold neon water against the pavement.
“I nearly lost mi’ mind, I did,” he continued, glaring at the rainy windshield. “They just kept screechin' and beggin' for mercy like I was fixin' to skin 'em alive. 'Please don't hurt us, mister!' Not a single useful, bleedin' syllable.”
“I assume they're dead,” Violet said flatly.
“Aye, they are,” answered Sawyer.
“And their partners?”
“Agreed to sign a new contract with some of the boyos Rhi recruited from St. Elsum.” Sawyer threw the car into a sharp right turn onto Fourth Street. “We wasn’t about to let a twin-paired bond slip through our fingers.”
Ridoc huffed, striking a match against his thumbnail to light a fresh cigarette. “That is entirely unfair. Why should the recruits get the chance to have two beasties?”
“The General’s call,” Sawyer said, eyeing the rearview mirror. “Now be a mucker and give me a light.”
Ridoc leaned over the front seat, striking another match to light Sawyer’s cigarette. The yellow flare briefly illuminated the dashboard. Sawyer breathed in and let out, what sounded like a much-needed hit of tobacco.
There was a heavy tap that vibrated through the back of the driver's seat.
Sawyer froze, immediately looking into the rearview mirror.
In the shadows of the backseat, sitting right beside Violet, Jesinia Neilwart aimed a pointed, disapproving look towards Sawyer. She was wearing a dress that was the polar opposite of Violet's. Cream white silk with gold accents that contrasted beautifully with her long brown hair and brown eyes.
“It’s my first one today, love, I swear!” he said defensively. “Tell her, Vi!”
Violet didn't even look up from adjusting the cuffs of her forearm-lengthened glove. “My job is to remove witnesses, Sawyer, not be one.”
She glanced over to Jesinia, who made several quick hand motions. “She said to roll the window down before she doctors you off the payroll ledger. These dresses are Tyrrish silk.”
Sawyer grumbled under his breath but immediately rolled his window down a crack, letting the damp wind suck the stray smoke.
With a tragic, theatrical sigh, he crushed the freshly lit cigarette into the dashboard ash receiver,
"Feck's sake, Jes, you'd freeze the tail off a brass monkey, so you would," Sawyer complained, throwing a wounded look into the rearview mirror. “A man can't even enjoy a single bleedin' puff without gettin' the absolute third degree from his own woman.”
Violet raised an unimpressed eyebrow. She lifted a gloved hand, preparing to sign exactly what Sawyer had just muttered, but Jesinia cut her off with a raised palm.
I read his lips, but thank you, Vi, Jesinia signed seamlessly. She then angled herself toward the front glass, throwing an exaggeratedly wounded, innocent look right back at Sawyer.
He caught her gaze in the mirror. They stared each other down for a few seconds, the silent standoff. He let out a soft chuckle.
“Ah, but who am I foolin’?”Sawyer said, shaking his head with a grin as his eyes snapped back to the road. “She may have no heart, Ridoc…but that's why I love her.”
Jesinia smirked. She leaned forward across the leather divide of the seats, planting a swift, affectionate kiss right on Sawyer’s grease-smudged cheek before sliding back into her seat.
She turned to Violet and pointed at her shoulder.
Violet rolled it subconsciously and signed with her free hand. Strained, but functional nonetheless. What did you and Sawyer manage to get out of Tyann and Siefert?
Jesinia’s hands shifted. Not much, as Sawyer said. They mentioned Barlowe’s father working with Melgren on something in the capital, but it could be anything.
Violet furrowed her brow. Rather unfortunate, Ridoc didn’t have much luck with Barlowe either. Only mention a warehouse by the North Docks. She signed back.
Jesinia shook her hand before signing again. We at least got the two bonded pairs tonight, maybe they'll tell us something after they choose one of Rhi’s recruits. And Barlowe’s been iced. In my opinion, The General would call that a win
Violet gave a nod. Mother does love a balanced ledger. Two new contracts will satisfy her… And The Scribe?
Already handed my contacts the script. Jesinia signed.
Right when the river currents finally thaw out, Barlowe’s corpse and dump it onto shore, they’ll be ready to print the story of a manic playboy taking a desperate dive over sour dock deals. The public will swallow it whole, and the feds won't find a single thread to pull.
Violet let out a tired breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Good, one less messy ending, the better,” she said
She reached into the hidden side pocket of her gown, pulling out a heavy, monogrammed silver flask and two crystal tumblers. She poured a generous splash of Promonail wine into both, keeping one and handing the other to Jesinia.
She extended her shoe, delivering a sharp tap to the back of Ridoc’s seat.
“You’re still on the clock, Ridoc,” she said, extending the glass towards him.
Ridoc stopped his conversation with Sawyer about who they would bet on in the next baseball game and gave a sour look.
“Not this again, Vi,” he protested. “I am not an icebox.”
“You are when you're on the clock,” said Violet, “And if you turn our drinks to slush, it’ll be docked from your pay.”
Ridoc turned to Sawyer for support.
“Sorry, Frosty, I’m not about to have Jes switch out the ketchup with hot sauce at breakfast again.”
Ridoc threw his hands up in the air. “Putain de merde,” he cursed. “A traitor is what you are mon frère”
He reached over the leather divider and held out his hand with the palm facing up. Violet felt the glass chill slowly, right to the perfect temperature.
“Voilà. Perfectly chilled,” he hissed, wiping his freezing palms on his trousers. “I hope my efforts please the crown.”
“Thank you,” said Violet.
She raised her glass, her fingers signing the final thoughts with her free hand. To clean ledgers, bought press, and above all...
Jesinia raised her own glass to Violets, her free wrist delivered a sharp, definitive flick: ...not falling asleep at Mira’s grueling charity gala tonight.
Click!
(The following week)
THE SCRIBES CHRONICLE
RIVER OF SHADOWS VOMITS UP GHASTLY PRIZE!
Missing Playboy Jack Barlowe Found Floating at North Docks After Week of Terror!
CORPSE ENTOMBED IN ICE IN DEFIANCE OF JUNE HEAT!
Reclusive Medic Dr. Bram Aisereigh Shuts Ledger on Millionaire’s Tragic 'Swan Dive'—Drowned in Debt!
NEW NAVARRE, JUNE 11 — A horrific, jaw-dropping spectacle paralyzed the North Docks at daybreak yesterday when the murky river-bottom finally surrendered the pristine, icy remains of New Navarre’s most notorious high-roller, Jack Barlowe Jr.!
Stunned longshoremen recoiled in sheer terror as the missing heir to the vast Barlowe Foundation fortune bobbed against the wooden piers. In a baffling twist that has set the city’s gossip-mills ablaze, the young swell’s corpse was plucked from the water, looking as though it had been kept in a butcher's meat locker, completely entombed in a block of solid ice despite the sweltering June climate!
While superstitious dockworkers whisper frantically of back-alley black magic, the city’s mortician and esteemed pathologist, Dr. Bram Aisereigh, was quick to douse the flames of scandal with a cold splash of official science.
Dr. Aisereigh attributed the uncanny, frozen state of the millionaire to a "freak arctic undercurrent" lurking beneath the shipping channels. Signing a definitive verdict of self-destruction, the reclusive medic declared that Barlowe’s shattered bones were caused entirely by his frantic, six-story swan dive from the Harwick Hotel penthouse. Police investigators point to the crushing financial ruin facing the young Barlowe over failed shipping investments at the North Docks as the sole motive for the desperate act…
A manicured hand slammed the newspaper down onto the polished mahogany desk.
Catriona Cordella exhaled a sharp, furious breath. She stared at the photograph of Jack Barlowe smiling, printed in grainy ink.
She knew Jack. He was an arrogant bastard, yes, but he was also the man who’d once bought out a failing tailor shop just so the old owner could retire with dignity. Pride was his engine; he’d never throw himself off a building over money. Someone had got to him.
It stunk of Lilith Sorrengail’s doing. The General, as the people had come to call the terrifying woman who ran her empire out of the back rooms of the Basgiath Cafè.
No doubt the reporters at The Scribe were bought and paid for by her ledger. And the police? They were too terrified of the bonded cleaners Lilith kept on her payroll to ever look too closely at a crime scene. Even the coroner, Dr. Aisereigh, had clearly been pressured to sign his name to a bogus suicide ruling to keep the feds from sniffing around.
Cat reached into her beaded evening bag, her fingers brushing past a compact mirror and a small, pearl-handled derringer before settling on a crisp, heavy cardstock business card.
In bold, embossed letters, it read:
RIORSON & TAVIS INVESTIGATIONS
Discretion Guaranteed. Specialized Inquiry & Detail.
404 Shadow Alley, New Navarre
Cat’s lips thinned into a worried line. She hadn't spoken to Xaden Riorson since he and Garrick enlisted overseas to help Tyrrendor fend off those brutal invaders from the East.
She grabbed her dove-grey morning coat, tucked the card into her pocket, and stepped out into the gray morning mist. Her eyes went back down to the crisp paper, and she let out a heavy sigh into the damp air.
“Please, Xaden,” she muttered to herself. “For once, just answer the door before I have to kick it in.”