There is a burning intensity in Anton’s face, belied by his half smile and the languid way he’s leaning against the bar. If he wants to lead the family, he’s going to have to lead guys like Grandad. He can’t afford to be shown up by an old man. He’s got something to prove, and he’s happy to use me to prove it.
“Take the drink,” Anton says.
“He’s underage,” says Grandad.
That makes the guys at the bar laugh. I throw back the vodka in a single swallow. Warmth floods my stomach and sears my throat. I cough. Everyone laughs harder.
“It’s like everything,” one of the guys says. “The first one’s the worst.”
Anton pours me another shot. “You’re wrong,” he says. “The second one’s the worst because you know what’s coming.”
“Go ahead,” Grandad says to me. “Take your drink, and then we’re going.”
I look up at the clock. Ten twenty.
The second shot burns all the way down.
One of the guys claps me on the back. “Come on,” he says to my grandfather. “Let the kid stay. We’ll take good care of him.”
“Cassel,” Grandad says firmly, making my name into a reprimand. “You don’t want to be tired for that fancy school of yours.”
“I came with Barron,” I say. I reach across the bar and pour myself a third shot. The guys love that.
“You’re leaving with me,” Grandad says under his breath.
This time the vodka goes down my throat like water. I step away from the bar and make myself stumble a little. I feel heady with confidence. I’m Cassel Sharpe. My mouth wants to shape the words. I’m smarter than everybody else and I’ve thought of everything.
“You okay?” Anton asks, looking at me like he’s trying to figure if I’m drunk. His plans depend on me. I look as blank as possible and hope that it freaks him out. No point in my being the only miserable one.
Grandad tugs me toward the double doors, against the tide of people. “He’ll sleep it off in the car.”
“Let me just run to the bathroom,” I tell Grandad. “I’ll be right back.”
He looks furious.
“Come on,” I say. “It’s a long ride.” On the wall the clock reads ten thirty. Anton’s going to be heading into position, guarding Zacharov. Barron’s probably already looking for me. But how long before Zacharov will show is anyone’s guess. His bladder could be made of iron.
“I’ll go with you,” Grandad says.
“I think you can trust me to piss without getting in any trouble.”
“Yeah,” he says, “but I don’t.”
We head toward the bathrooms, which are near enough to the kitchen that we have to head into the shadowy, windowless area behind the bar. I look over and see Zacharov and a beautiful woman with long honey-colored hair hanging on his arm. The pale red gem on his tie is overmatched by the rubies hanging from her ears. People are declaring their support and shaking his hand, leather glove against leather glove.
There in the crowd I think I see her. Lila. Her hair white under the lights. Her mouth painted blood bright.
She’s not supposed to be here yet. She’s going to ruin everything.
I veer off toward the buffet. Toward her. By the time I get there, she’s gone.
“What now?” Grandad asks.
I pop a rose-flavored syrniki in my mouth.
“I’m trying to sneak food,” I say, “since you’re so crazy that you won’t let me eat.”
“I know what you’re trying to do,” he says. “I see you looking at the clock. No more bull, Cassel. Piss or don’t.”
“Okay,” I say, and walk into the bathroom. Ten forty. I don’t know how much longer I can drag my feet.
There are a few other guys in here, combing their hair in the mirrors. A skinny puffy-eyed blond is doing a line of coke off the counter. He doesn’t even look up when the door opens.
I go into the first stall and sit down on the lid of the toilet seat, trying to calm myself.
My watch reads ten forty-three.
I wonder if Lila wants everything ruined. I wonder if I really saw her in the crowd or if I just conjured her out of my fears.
I take off my suit jacket, unbutton my shirt, and tape the packet of fake blood directly onto my skin, resigning myself to the gluey hair removal I am going to get later when I rip it off. I tug the wire through the inside of my pants pocket, ripping the seam and adding more tape so the trigger’s easy to grab.
Ten forty-seven.
I check for the bottle of puke taped behind the toilet bowl. It’s there, but I have no idea which one of them finally gave in and threw up. I smile at the thought.
Ten forty-eight. I attach the wire to the trigger.
“You okay in there?” Grandad calls. Someone snickers.
“Just a second,” I say.
I make a choking noise and pour out half the contents of the puke bottle. The room fills with the vinegary three-day-old smell of sick. I gag again, this time for real.
I pour out the other half and carefully return the empty bottle to the tape. Leaning down is the worst. I gag again.
“You okay?” Grandad doesn’t sound impatient anymore. “Cassel?”
“Fine,” I say, and spit.
I flush the toilet and button up my shirt carefully, then pull on the suit jacket but don’t button that.
The door opens and I hear Anton’s voice. “Everyone out. We need the bathroom clear.”
My legs feel unsteady with relief. I open the door of the stall and lean against the frame. Almost everyone has already been chased out by my fake vomiting, but the stragglers and the cokehead are filing past Anton. Zacharov stands at the sinks.
“Desi Singer,” he says, rubbing the side of his mouth. “It’s been a long time.”
“This is a very nice party,” my grandfather says gravely, nodding toward Zacharov, his nod almost a bow. “I hadn’t figured you for politics.”
“We who break laws should care the most about them. We deal with them more than other people, after all.”
“They say that all really great crooks eventually go into politics,” Grandad says.
Zacharov smiles at that, but when he sees me, his smile fades. “No one’s supposed to be in here,” he tells Anton.
“Sorry,” I say, sticking out my hand. “I’m a little drunk. This is a great party, sir.”
Grandad grabs for my arm to pull it away, but Anton stops him.
“This is Philip’s little brother.” Anton’s grinning, like this is all a hilarious joke. “Give the kid a thrill.”
Zacharov extends his hand slowly, looking me in the eye. “Cassel, right?”
Our eyes meet. “It’s okay, sir. If you don’t want to shake.”
He holds my gaze. “Go ahead.”
I take his hand in mine and cover his wrist with my other hand, pushing my gloved fingers up his sleeve, worming my finger through the small opening in the leather so I can brush the skin of his wrist. His eyes open wide when I touch him, like I’ve given him an electric shock. He jerks back.
I pull him sharply toward me. “You have to pretend to die,” I whisper against his ear. “Your heart just turned to stone.”
Zacharov staggers away from me, stricken. He looks toward Anton, and for a moment I think he’s going to ask something that will doom me. Then he lurches abruptly against the hinge of one of the stalls and, stumbling back, bangs his head against the hand dryer. He gasps soundlessly and slides down the wall, hand knotting in his shirt like he is trying to grasp his chest.
We watch him as his eyes close. His mouth gapes once more, like he’s trying for a last gasp of air.
Zacharov’s not a bad con man himself.
“What did you do?” Grandad shouts. “Undo it, Cassel. Whatever you’ve done—” My grandfather looks at me like he doesn’t know me.
“Shut up, old man,” Anton says, punching the stall behind Grandad’s head.
I want to snap at Anton, but there’s no time. Lack of blowback’s going to give me away.
I concentrate on transforming myself. I picture a blade coming toward my own head, try to feel the impulse to work the work that danger feeds.
I have to freak myself out. I think of Lila, and me with a knife standing over her. I imagine raising the blade and feel the full weight of horror and self-loathing. The false memory still has the power to terrify me.
I actually jerk my hand a tiny bit in response, and then I feel my flesh go malleable. I imagine my father’s hand in place of my own. I picture his blunt fingers and rough calluses.
My father’s hand to go with his suit.
A small transformation. A little change. One that I hope will have minimal blowback.
A ripple runs through my flesh. I concentrate on taking a step toward the wall, but my foot feels like it’s spreading out, melting.
Anton reaches into his coat and flips open a butterfly knife. It twirls in his fingers, as bright as the scales of a fish. He leans over Zacharov and carefully cuts the pin from his tie. “Everything’s going to be different now,” he says, slipping the Resurrection diamond into his pocket.
Anton turns toward me, still holding the knife, and suddenly this seems like a terrible, terrible plan.
“I’m sure you don’t remember,” Anton says, his voice low. “But you made me an amulet. Don’t even think about trying to work me.”
As if I could do anything but fall to my knees as my body twists and contorts.
Through blurry, changing vision, I see my grandfather crouching near Zacharov.
My limbs change, fins rising on my skin, and fifth and sixth arms banging into the wall. My head thrashes back and forth. My tongue forks. Everything cramps as the bones wrench themselves out of their sockets. My eyes become a thousand eyes, blinking together at the painted ceiling. I tell myself it will be over soon, but it goes on and on and on.
Anton walks toward Grandad. “You’re a loyal worker, so it makes me sad to have to do this.”
“Stop right there,” Grandad says.
Anton shakes his head. “I’m glad Philip doesn’t have to watch. He wouldn’t understand, but I think you do, old man. A leader’s got to be careful who gets to tell stories about him.”
I try to turn over, but my legs are hooves and they clatter against the tiles. I don’t know how to work them. I try to shout, but my voice isn’t my own—there’s a birdlike whistle in it, probably from the beak hardening on my face.
“Good-bye,” Anton says to my grandfather. “I’m about to become a legend.”
Someone bangs on the door. The knife stops, hovering in front of Grandad’s throat.
“It’s me,” Barron says from the other side. “Open up.”
“Let me open the door,” says Grandad. “Put away the knife. If I’m loyal to anyone, it’s this boy here. And if you want him loyal to you, you’ll be careful.”
“Anton,” I say from the floor. It’s hard to form the words with my curling tongue. “Door!”
Anton looks at me, slings the knife back into its sheath, and opens the door.
I concentrate on moving my transformed hand into the pocket of my pants.
Barron takes a few stiff steps into the room, then staggers forward, like he was pushed from behind.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” a girl’s voice calls. Lila is wearing a red dress as tight as it is short. Her only accessory is the huge silver gun gleaming in the fluorescent lights. The door swings shut behind her. The gun sure looks real. And she’s pointing it straight at Anton.
Anton’s lips part, like he’s going to say her name, but no words come out.
“You heard me,” she says.
“He killed your father,” Anton says, pointing the closed knife at me. “It wasn’t me. It was him.”
Her gaze shifts to where Zacharov’s body is resting, and the barrel of the gun wavers.
I reach under my jacket, hoping that my fingers stay fingerlike long enough to be usable. My tongue is working again. “You don’t understand. I never meant—”
“I’m tired of your excuses,” she says, leveling the gun at me. Her hand is shaking. “You didn’t know what you were doing. You don’t remember. You didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
She doesn’t sound like she’s pretending.
I try to stand. “Lila—”
“Shut up, Cassel,” she says, and shoots me.
Blood spatters cover my shirt.
I gasp like a fish.
As my eyes close, I hear Grandad choke out my name.
There’s nothing like a gunshot to make you the life of the party.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
IT HURTS. I EXPECTED THAT, but it still knocks the breath out of me. Wetness seeps through my shirt, making it stick to my skin.
I try to still my breathing as much as possible. My body’s shifting has slowed; the blowback’s wearing off. I want to keep my eyes open, but I need Anton to really believe I was shot, so I listen instead of looking.
“Both of you, against the sinks,” Lila says. “Put your hands where I can see them.”
People are moving around me. I hear a grunt from my grandfather’s direction, but I can’t afford to look.
“How can you be here?” Anton asks her.
“Oh, come now,” Lila says, low and dangerous. “You know how I got here. I walked. From Wallingford. On my little paws.”
I try to shift, just a little, so it will be easier to stand later.
Like a stage magician, the con artist misdirects suspicion. While everyone’s watching for him to pull a rabbit out of a hat, he’s actually sawing a girl in half. You think he’s doing one trick when he’s actually doing another.
