“Sweetheart, sit so we can wait,” Madden added patiently, as if addressing a stubborn niece. “Or I’ll choose one of these lowlives to join us.”
Some nearby patrons glanced at where I stood, tense and unmoving. But without a voice, I couldn’t warn them. With my heart in my throat, I sat.
“We can’t put up with this for much longer,” Cahir muttered toward Madden. “Bringing her is one more thing to worry about.”
“I’m already arranging a place for her,” Madden replied, fishing out a cigarette and lighting it, the smoke drifting towards other tables.
A waitress approached with a white apron and a warm smile, hair the colour of dark wine. “Afternoon. What can I get for you?” she asked lightly.
Madden stared past her, not deigning to respond.
Cahir answered instead, locking eyes with the girl. “We are not having anything. Do not disturb us again.”
Her smile remained, though her eyes dulled slightly. Compelled. She nodded and walked away.
Cahir withdrew his own cigarette and studied me through the hazy air. “Is she really worth it?” he asked Madden. “Perhaps a spy would be less trouble.”
I watched the green and brown leaves sway in the oak trees outside. Watched the parade of people moving in and out of the clothing shops and restaurants and tobacco stores.
It all rang…familiar.
“A spy cannot predict the outcome,” Madden said, sounding more bored than cautious. “I already have more than enough information. What I need is reassurance.”
Reassurance I couldn’t offer unless I had a body free from wounds. The only reason they had bothered bringing me at all was because of the risk of someone else trying to harm me if I stayed behind. Madden still wanted me alive.
“We are naked,” Madden continued, crushing the cigarette in the ashtray at the centre of the table. “The new reform room is stripping us faster than others are keeping warm. Either we reduce the costs on paint or…” His gaze drifted lazily around the café. “On coffee and cake.”
Cahir nodded, smoke curling from between his fingers.
He’d mentioned supplies before, something about Madden needing me for information. Whatever operation they were discussing with their coded language, they needed to cut expenses. Perhaps those costs were related to the servants, who needed food and housing to keep working. Coffee and cake?
But why would Madden risk breaking laws for house servants? I didn’t know him, but he didn’t strike me as reckless. He was more calculating than this.
He might want to profit again from the backs of captured humans. He didn’t need only house servants. He wanted people for the tunnels. For mining.
They sat in their quiet triumph, hiding much more than I’d seen or heard.
As if sensing my stare, Giddeon Madden turned to me, studying me for a long, unsettling moment before leaning in slightly. “You’ll make me a very rich man, Deborah,” he said low, then looked to Cahir. “What do you think?”
“Her name doesn’t matter,” Cahir replied dully, gaze sliding back to the window as if he waited to see someone there.
“But I’m asking you anyway,” Madden said, the first sign of firmness threading his tone.
Cahir caught it and met his master’s stare. “Deborah works. It’s her surname we have to consider.”
“Deborah,” Madden repeated slowly, his eyes weighing me like a thing, not a person.
Or rather, another person.
My pulse thumped beneath the borrowed skin. The stranger’s face hid my panic, but I still felt it, coiling within me. Sweat broke on my back, and the air was too heavy, hard to breathe.
My palms turned clammy, and I recognized the signs, the panic rising and rising.
I clawed at the choker, trying to rip it free, dragging in frantic breaths when the clasp sent a painful pulse along my fingertips.
Oh gods. Oh gods.
The second time I reached for it, my hand went stiff, my fingers hardening.
