Jac had worn his good suit for their lunch with Charles Torren, because it was his only piece of clothing that he’d be willing to die in. When Sophia answered her apartment door, dressed in her usual red clothes and thigh-high boots, she gasped, swung the door wider, and threw her arms around him.
“You didn’t come back last night. I thought after the lockdown, you might’ve—”
“I had to spend the night in a church.” Jac stretched out his shoulders. “But other than being a bit stiff, I’m fine.”
She took a step back and looked him over. Jac expected her to ask him how his meeting with the den manager had gone, but instead she asked, “Did you bring me a corsage or something?”
So they were back to this place. At least empty banter was preferable to fighting.
“I thought I’d dress to impress. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when you meet the family?”
“Not my family,” she said.
They took the Mole the few stops to the casino. The passengers who shared their train car were unusually quiet for a commuter’s morning, unwilling to meet anyone’s eyes. When they emerged onto Tropps Street, Jac noticed the gambling taverns had already opened their doors in a pitiful attempt to attract business before the new curfew. Whiteboots and troopers directed traffic with assault rifles slung over their shoulders.
A concierge greeted Jac and Sophia at the front doors of Luckluster. Jac had never actually been inside the casino before, and its black-and-red decor made him feel like he was walking into a haunted fun house, everything striped and glossy as though candy coated.
Sophia’s eyes roamed over every detail of the place, from the flowers carved into the crown molding to the dark candlesticks arranged on a center table, like the pipes of an unholy organ. She ran her fingers over everything, as though deciding which piece to ignite first.
“I was never allowed down here,” Sophia murmured, making him startle. “I was so young. My family has a private entrance to the floor.”
Jac didn’t trust himself to answer her—otherwise he’d probably snap. This offering was a tiny fraction of her truth, a piece of the distorted puzzle that made up her past.
“It’s uglier than I imagined,” she said.
“You’ve never been? In all this time?”
“I didn’t want to come unless it was to burn it.” She curled her hand into a fist. “This comes close enough.”
They followed the concierge down a maze of curving hallways to a private elevator, much like the one in St. Morse that led to Vianca’s personal suite.
When the doors closed, Jac felt for the pistol in his pocket, to reassure himself it was still there.
“I don’t want to kill him today,” Sophia murmured. “I need to face him first. It’s time he learns I’m not the child I once was.”
“You act as though wecouldkill him,” Jac said.
“He’s only human.” She spoke those words like she was still trying to convince herself. “When he looks us in the eyes and knows that he’s lost, then we’ll kill him.”
“And if he tries to kill us?”
She took a deep breath and pulled a small handgun from her pocket to match his own. “It’s two against one.”
When the doors opened, Charles Torren stood before them, his hands clasped behind his back. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his shirt stretched tight over his large frame. Unlike Sedric, who’d carried a ruby-encrusted knife and worn his hair slicker than his smile, Charles had a serious look to him. His shirt was buttoned up to the collar, almost like his late sister’s medical jacket. The pleats in his pants were perfectly straight, his expression as cool and sharp as a surgical knife. A silver stopwatch hung from his breast pocket, wedged beside a row of pens and a miniature black leather journal.
“Hello, Sophia,” he said. There was a nasal quality to his voice, awkward and uncomfortable. “Look at you.” He clapped his hands as though with glee. “That’s a nice trick, isn’t it? How did you afford a skin-stitcher? That’s what you did, right? I saw the pictures and thought there was some mistake, but I know that look. It’s still you, blonde and blue-eyed and all.”
Jac frowned. Was he shatz? Sophia had brown hair and green eyes. But he remembered the strange reflection in Delia’s glasses when she’d looked at Sophia. That reflection had been blonde, too. Was it possible they saw her as a different person?
She only gave him a nod. “Hello, Charlie.”
If the nickname bothered him, he didn’t show it. He turned his attention to Jac. “You must be Todd.” Charles held out his hand to shake, and Jac obliged. His skin was icy. “Or do you prefer your real name?”
“Call me Jac,” he answered, smiling with tight lips.
Charles didn’t smile back.
Jac tried to imagine how this man could’ve been Sedric Torren’s closest friend. Sedric had always been fond of parties, the more wicked the better. But Charles seemed to take his pleasures served cold—deadcold.
