CHAPTER 11

“Max,” she whispered. “What’s happening?”

“Shhh. Watch.” His former enthusiasm had receded, replaced by something that further curdled Pity’s anticipation.

“And why is tonight’s act so rare?” boomed Halcyon. “Because to have a Finale, we need a lawbreaker, and we all know that Cessation is lawless.” There was a rumble of laughter. “Or very nearly lawless.” He paused. “Tonight, I’m sorry to say that we have one of Casimir’s own.”

Luster gasped.

“Oh, hell,” Garland said. “Who?”

“Someone,” Halcyon continued, “who dared to cross Cessation’s guardian, its protector, its patron saint. There is no law but the law that she lays down!”

The stands screamed their agreement. “Selene! Selene! Selene!” they cried, the chant beating in time with the blood in Pity’s ears.

“Tonight, for the crimes of theft and deception, our criminal faces his sentencing!”

There were no lights, no music, as Beeks appeared in the center of the stage. On his knees he slumped, hands limp in his lap.

“Alastair Beeks, do you deny the charges?”

“I don’t.” He looked into the rafters, his face as pale as old snow. “I don’t, but please, Miss Selene, please have mercy!”

Pity scanned the other boxes. She saw faces rapt with attention, eyes greedy with bloodlust, but Selene was nowhere to be seen. Even so, Pity was sure she was watching, somewhere.

Halcyon replied in her stead. “Your plea of guilt is duly noted.”

The ceiling lit up again. This time, still projections of the different acts appeared. Scylla, the Zidanes, the Rousseaus, and others floated above the heads of the audience. The images began to rotate, faster and faster, until they were only streaks of color.

“Honored guests, here is where you weigh in. Tell me, what shall be the manner of his punishment?”

One image popped out as the others continued to spin. The Rousseaus. The crowd cheered. When another image appeared beside it, this time of the Zidanes, they cheered even louder, some stamping their feet in the stands. Then Scylla’s image appeared, and all hell broke loose. The noise was deafening, the stomping shaking the entire theatre.

“Ugh, rough draw for Beeks,” said Duchess. “They chose Little Miss Tits and Snakes again.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re afraid of snakes!” Luster tossed back. “Personally,” she said to Pity, “I hate the Rousseaus. Last time they dangled the guy on a noose and toyed with him before dropping him from the top of the theatre. The sound he made when he hit the floor… bleah, it still makes me cringe!”

Pity barely heard her. Everything was muted, distant. There was only Beeks, caged in a spotlight, close enough that she could see the glaze of sweat on his forehead. He looked like he was going to be sick. She sympathized, bile rising in the back of her throat.

“Our champion is chosen!” Halcyon cried. Scylla’s music began to play again. “Alastair Beeks, you have been judged and sentenced. May whatever power you pray to have mercy on your soul… because Scylla won’t.”

Beeks finally panicked. He leapt to his feet and darted for the edge of the ring. A door opened in front of him. He froze as Scylla appeared. At her feet, a river of green and black and beige slithered out, spreading around either side of him. He stumbled backward, trying to get away, and nearly trod on a cobra. It struck out; he barely avoided the attack. The crowd roared.

Scylla took her time. She strolled around the perimeter of the stage as the audience cheered her on, traipsing among the snakes like they were summer flowers. She didn’t look at Beeks, who had retreated to the center of the stage, only watched her pets lovingly. At one point she stopped and ran her fingers over the back of a thick white python. It curled up her arm and over her shoulders.

Only then did she approach Beeks. With each step, the snakes she passed turned and followed her. The rest of the serpents slithered toward the center of the stage as well. Beeks’s island of safety began to shrink.

“Miss Selene, please!” His body shook as he screamed. “Scylla, sweetie, beautiful—you know me! I made a mistake. Don’t do this. Call them off. Call them off!”

Scylla’s step never faltered. She glided closer to Beeks as the audience began to chant her name, stopping a few paces from him. The snakes formed a dense ring around the pair. Scylla petted the python around her neck. Then, slowly, she lifted one hand and pointed. Beeks shook and fell to his knees.

Scylla snapped her fingers.

One by one, the snakes attacked. They struck at Beeks’s arms, his legs, his chest. One launched at his neck. Beeks batted it aside, but two more latched themselves on to his forearm. Somehow he managed to get to his feet, face pink and already beginning to bloat. Scylla signaled again. The snakes stopped and slithered back. Teetering, Beeks stumbled forward two steps, reaching out for Scylla. White foam bubbled from his mouth. On the third step, he fell, face forward, onto the floor.

His body shuddered a few times and stilled.

When the riotous clapping began, Pity joined in automatically, her hands moving back and forth mechanically to applaud the final act of the Theatre Vespertine.

Pity yanked the scrap of fabric tighter around her. It did nothing to stop the shivering. She leaned against the wall for support as they waited in a passage beneath the stands. Above them, hundreds of feet pounded against the ceiling, as loud as the applause minutes before. She could feel the eyes of the others upon her.

“Are you okay?” Luster asked.

Pity stared at the ground, unsure how to answer. The show had left her with a distressing snarl of emotion—energized, excited, disgusted… and terrified.

“Leave her be,” said Duchess. “Her delicate sensitivities aren’t used to—”

The feelings burned away in a flash, fuel for the anger that coursed through her. “You think I’ve never seen a dead man before? You think the communes don’t have their own sort of justice?” She stalked over to Duchess and stabbed a finger at him. “Just because we don’t kill folks for entertainment where I’m from doesn’t mean we’re ‘delicate.’ So don’t you tell me what kind of sensitivities I do and do not have!”

“Whoa, calm down.” Garland wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her away. “He didn’t mean anything by it.”

Clutched against Garland, Pity was more unsettled than ever but no longer shivering. Heat rose in her cheeks, and she was instantly ashamed for having such a reaction after the morbid event she had witnessed.

“You’re not the only one who got a shock,” Garland continued as she disentangled herself. “I take it that’s what you and Olivia and Santino were up to, Max?”

“Yeah. I would have warned you, but…”

“But it wouldn’t have done a lick of good.” Duchess tossed his head. “Beeks crossed Miss Selene. He knew better.”

That no one asked what Beeks had done didn’t escape Pity’s notice.

“Well,” Luster sighed, “after that, I think all our sensitivities could use a drink.”

The Gallery was crowded and raucous by the time they arrived. They elbowed their way to the long bar that ran along one wall, where Max wrangled a stool for Pity.

Luster wriggled in beside her and leaned across the polished wood. “Hey—hey, Olivia!”

Olivia sauntered toward them, in finer clothes than the last time Pity had seen her, though her whip remained coiled on her hip. She smirked at Pity. “Hardly recognized you. Nice dress. Almost covers the bruises.”

“Drinks, Olivia, strong ones.” Luster kicked up a heel and balanced it on the bar, her dress riding high on her hips. When the patron beside her gave her an appreciative once-over, Luster winked at the woman in the mirrored wall that ran along the back of the bar.

Olivia frowned. “Not when you ask like that, missy.”

Garland gave a winsome smile. “Please. The word she forgot was please.”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Anyone ever said no to that face, Gar?” She eyed Pity. “Performers drink free, though you’re not really a performer yet, are you?”

“C’mon, Olivia,” said Max.

“Fine. I guess she might as well enjoy herself as long as she’s around. Although others are supposed to be working for their keep.”

“One round and we’re on the clock,” Garland promised.

“Horseshit.” But Olivia filled five tumblers from a pitcher, sliding the first over to Pity.

Pity hesitated, body tight with unease. A few hours ago she had begun to relish the possibilities that the Theatre offered. But now? She took a polite sip. “Thanks. It’s good.”

“Really?” said Olivia. “Because from the look on your face, it tastes like old spit.”

Pity stared into the tumbler. The ice cubes knocked against one another woodenly. “I’m not much of a drinker is all.”

“Interfere with your aim?”

“Don’t know.” Her eyes locked with Olivia’s. “Never messed up my mother’s, though, no matter how many empty bottles she left behind her as she walked the wall. Her balance, on the other hand…”

A pall fell over the group, a knot of silence in the surrounding revelry.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“It’s okay, honey,” said Luster. “You just watched a man die. Something like that always stirs up old ghosts.”

“New ones, too.” Pity leaned over her drink, thinking of Finn’s flask the night before they ran. For the pain, she had said. Pity took another long swallow.

“I’m sorry,” said Max. “I wanted to say something, but I was afraid if I did you might get a bad idea about the Theatre.”

“A bad idea?” Pity shoved a stray piece of hair out of her face. “Max—they executed a man! With snakes! Is that a normal thing here?”

“No.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Look, a Finale is pretty rare. Only the very worst end up there—the ones who do more than enjoy the absence of law, who step over the line and keep going.”

“Yeah, like this.” Duchess pushed closer and lifted his silver shirt to reveal a jagged, florid scar. Pity’s chest tightened as he twisted around to give her a better view. It started above his left hip bone, hooking around his waist and up to the middle of his back. “Not the prettiest thing about me, huh?”

“Where… did you get it?”

“A present from an admirer who liked to break his toys when he was done with them. This was before Casimir, when I was living on the streets.” He let the shirt fall. “Those of us who worked the alleys knew it was happening. Didn’t know who was doing it, but, well, we had to eat, right? I was lucky. I got away. But I didn’t hide or look for a doctor. I came here. Walked right in the front door with my guts nearly hanging out because I knew what Selene would do about it.” He paused. “They patched me up, took me in, and soon enough my admirer was the Theatre’s featured attraction.”

“Still…” Pity searched for the right words, embarrassed at having scolded him earlier.

“Still what?” Duchess drained his drink. “He got what was coming to him.”

“What he’s saying is that no one ends up in a Finale unless they deserve it,” said Max. “And there are some people the world is better off without.”

Did Beeks really deserve to die? Pity took a deep breath. Magnanimous or not, Selene was clearly not a woman to cross. “Is Halcyon going to ask me to do that? Because I’m not sure I could.”

Max nudged her. “You didn’t show this much reluctance when you nearly killed me.”

“That was different. It was self-defense!”

There was a sudden, high cry. Pity and everyone around her turned toward it. A few yards away, in a padded red booth, a man clutched a young woman in white lingerie. She was pushing him away, a frantic look on her face.

“Son of a—”

Olivia launched herself onto the surface of the bar and leapt off, landing among scattering patrons. With a flick of her whip, the man in the booth was clawing at his throat; a yank tumbled him to the carpet. The woman in white retreated behind Olivia as the bartender’s boot descended on the man’s hand with an audible crunch. He howled.

“You got a bad memory or something? You’ve been warned already.”

The man glared, his face half pain and half sneer. “What do you care? I’m a paying customer, aren’t—”

Olivia ground his hand into the floor with her heel. Pity flinched as his argument turned into a scream. “This is my hall, and you will follow my rules when you’re in it. Understand?”

Flossie materialized out of the onlookers, all peachy skin and bouncing pink lace. “Problem, Olivia?”

“Not anymore.” The bartender whistled. A pair of Tin Men ran over. “Give him a shot.”

One of the Tin Men jabbed the man with a shock stick. He bucked as every muscle contracted at once, a cry of pain trapped behind clenched teeth.

“Your turn,” said Olivia.

Flossie addressed the offender. “I’m sorry, sir, but your patronage is no longer welcome in Casimir. Olivia, sweetie, you want to bust his other hand before they toss him out?”

Olivia shrugged. “Why not?”

“No!” he cried. “No, I’m sorry, please don’t!”

“Oh, don’t apologize to me, hon. Apologize to Kitty.”

The man sniffled at the young woman. “I’m sorry, Kitty. I swear I am.”

“Now, sir.” Flossie leaned closer, her smile as doll-like as the rest of her. “If you ever try to come here again, Olivia will shoot you. Happily. Understand?”

He nodded vigorously. At Olivia’s command, the Tin Men dragged him away.

Flossie put her arm around Kitty. “Come here, sweetie. You wanna take the rest of the night off?”

“Thanks, Flossie. I’m okay.” She rubbed the tops of her arms. “He wouldn’t quit pinching me. It hurt! I told him that wasn’t my thing and someone else would be happy to accommodate him, but he just wouldn’t stop.”

Olivia returned to her spot behind the bar. She picked up the pitcher and pointedly refilled Pity’s and Max’s glasses.

“Message received,” said Duchess. He and Garland wandered off. Luster was already engaged with the appreciative customer, sitting on her lap and offering a pill from a silver tin.

Pity raised an eyebrow at Olivia. “You’re pretty dangerous for a bartender.”

“Well, bartender and deputy head of security.” Olivia grabbed a bottle. “For all the professions I’ve pursued in my time, they all seem to come down to the same thing eventually.”

The same thing. The thought echoed in Pity’s mind. Selene… Casimir… they didn’t hesitate to protect their own. She saw Finn fall again, murdered by thieves who cared no more about putting a bullet into her as they would a rabid dog. Would you have hesitated to see them executed for it? The answer came quick and clear: No. But what did it say about Pity that she’d leave the difficult part to someone else?

The only steel in her is in those guns.

That wasn’t true. She might not be tough enough for security work, might have failed to save Finn, but she wasn’t a coward. She wasn’t. And Max was right. There were some folks the world was better off without.

She turned to him. “Okay. I understand.”

“Understand what?”

“What Olivia just did… and the Theatre and Beeks. It’s all different kinds of justice, right?”

He thought for a moment. “That’s a good way of putting it.”

Justice, she repeated to herself. I can handle justice.

“Look,” Max said, “even if you’re in a show with a Finale, what are the chances the audience would pick you? A bullet is fast. Simple. The Theatre’s audience? They want a show.”

There were no clocks in the Gallery, and Pity had no idea what time it was when they finally stumbled back to her room. She was exhausted and barefoot, shoes dangling in one hand.

“How in the world does Luster get around in these? My feet are killing me! Wearing them is like trying to walk on river stones!” Despite nursing her drinks all night, Pity felt warm all over. Words tumbled recklessly from her mouth. “Have you ever walked on river stones? You know how they get all mossy and slippery?”

Max laughed. “I can’t say I have. Have you ever gone swimming in the ocean?”

“Are you kidding? I think Cessation is as close to an ocean as I’ve ever been.” She unlocked the door and tossed the shoes into the corner. “Good riddance.”

Max pointed. “Looks like someone left you a present.”

On the table was a small satchel with half a dozen boxes on top of it. An orange note sat beside the pile.

“‘Dearest Pity,’” she read, affecting dramatic intonation. “‘A little something for tomorrow’s rehearsal. See you at noon, sharp! Ever yours, Halcyon.’” She picked up one of the boxes. It rattled when she shook it. “I know that sound!”

Inside, bullets were stacked in neat layers. She picked one out. The smooth, cool casing was oddly soothing.

“Halcyon gives the best gifts.” Max took the note from her hand. She felt a fresh flush of warmth when his fingers brushed hers. “Noon? I should let you get some sleep.”

Pity gripped the bullet. She didn’t want to sleep. And she didn’t really want Max to go, either. Her earlier anxiety was gone, replaced by an unfamiliar energy, and she knew that if Max left, if the night ended, then the energy would, too.

But there was Selene’s mandate to keep in mind. Pity hadn’t earned her place in the Theatre yet. And if she failed in that, she’d be saying good-bye to Max for more than a few hours.

“You’re right,” she said. “It’s late. And if I want to stick around, I better be able to shoot straight, right?”

Yet when he was gone, Pity lay wide-awake in bed, rolling the bullet back and forth between her fingers, back and forth, until it was so warm it felt a part of her.