Raven Pirate Assassin Spy Page 5

  “Well?” Ian motioned with his hands as if to say “tell me.”

  She shook her head. “No dice. I’ll share the information only once and only to Janken.” This knowledge didn’t need to be spread from ear to ear. Most people would laugh and call it a rumor, but to speak her true name would cost a lot. “Anything else?”

  He glanced at her and let out a sigh. “This guy is a bit of a shock when you first see him. Rumors are he looks strange because he made a deal with the devil in exchange for becoming a musical prodigy. He doesn’t see like you and I see, either. Don’t think that makes him weak. He’s not. The best way to deal with him is to be impassive. No fear, no surprise, and definitely no anger.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of that.” She’d trained for years with martial arts masters, thieves, and cutthroats culled from the vast supply the kaiser had gained through the war. They’d come to her, trained her, and left once she’d mastered each task. The first lesson she’d learned was how to remain unaffected by her interactions with people. How to disarm them—physically—had quickly followed.

  “You say that, but are you prepared for what you’ll see? Prepared to not take action?” Ian’s eyebrows rose.

  “I’ve stood this far from a killer of millions and kept myself from spilling his blood. A skin trader who’s not like other men will be more an annoyance than a threat to my temper.” She’d pay penance for any evil thoughts later, and hateful inner musings required far fewer Hail Marys than murder did.

  He rolled his eyes. “You say that now, but when we arrive at the club, I’m sure you’ll think differently.”

  “If he’s so awful, why isn’t he marked?” To be openly disgraceful surely incurred wrath from the American government. Her own culture embraced diverse relationships, even sinful ones. As with all horrible things, as long as the proper penance was paid to God, they’d be forgiven.

  He laughed then, loud and unashamed. The sound filled her ears, and she failed to stop the smile his open humor brought to her lips. Only when he abruptly stopped laughing did she realize he had found her ignorance surprising.

  “One thing about N’awlins you need to learn…. Superstition will stay even the heartiest American patriot. The culture here is home to Voodoo and provides enough kings, queens, curses, hexes, and supposed witchcraft to leave a mark on anyone born here. Janken uses this superstition to his advantage, and the authorities won’t touch him for fear he’ll bring some evil to their families.”

  She’d heard of similar things among her own people, the superstitions Italians held about the mountains in the northern part of the country, rumors about bands of thieves and gypsies who’d gut families in their sleep…. Such fears kept travel to main roads, limited exploration, at least by peasants, and incurred the condemnation of the Church.

  “I understand, and I’ll keep that in mind.” She left him then, disturbed by his admissions and how they inspired thoughts of her own homeland, a country she planned on never seeing again.

  ***

  Sending Bastille and his men out for supplies, Sorella took the afternoon to relax and, eventually, to nap. Performing the meditation and focusing techniques taught to her over the years, she willed the bundling nerves winding their way through her body to release their tension.

  To lie to herself and say her body’s stress came from her situation and not from a certain merchant benefited no one. Instead, she embraced her desire and accepted the truth of her situation—Ian inspired a latent excitement, an emotion she’d only experienced through killing. Betting for kisses, dangerous liaisons through the New Orleans streets, and the allure of Voodoo. Such things hadn’t existed when she was being trained to kill, then bred for social perfection, and, later, thrust into the role of group leader, which had required her to be responsible, not frivolous.

  Now she followed Ian through the French Quarter. People milled everywhere, drinks in hand, cigar smoke curling above the throng. Hawkers sold their wares, from children to weapons, whatever was needed. Slowly dipping toward the horizon, the sun still shone, but its illumination was lost among the tall buildings and low alleys.

  For this trip, she’d donned her typical boots, pants, and vest, but had added her duster—a leather concoction traded to them by an American who had hailed from the far West. He’d recommended it to her as a way to keep her body shielded from dirt, rain, and any other elements. So far, it’d been worth the electo wand trade.

  After what seemed like an hour of walking through the streets, they came to the center of the square. Edison’s fancy bulbs served as street lamps in these parts, Tesla’s hard work having been shunned as un-American. He’d been out of the United States’ favor from the moment he’d allied himself with the kaiser and begun creating weapons.

  A park loomed in the center of the square, a safe place in which thieves could hide and jump out to rob unsuspecting passersby. Best to steer clear of that area if she wanted to win the bet.

  Yet what really caught her attention was the cathedral, enormous and rising from the earth like a symbol of purity. Clear cut, white marble, its steeples reached toward the heavens. To attend mass in such a place.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Ian whispered in her ear.

  “Si,” she murmured and then realized she’d stopped in the middle of the cobbled street to stare at this monument to the Almighty. The heat from the man at her back seeped through her coat, setting a blaze through her.

  “We’re headed right over there.” He slid an arm around her shoulder and pointed to a well-lit building on the far corner. Tesla coils burning on the corners wound around one another, forming a large sign. The purple electricity continuously spiraled through the coils, announcing to the world that those inside did indeed “Howl at the Moon.” They appeared impervious to God and the government, set up across from a church and using technology banned in the United States.

  Ian took a step forward, motioning at her to leave the peaceful serenity the church invoked for the harsh, cruel, and depraved environment of the club where Janken ruled. If that weren’t enough, the women and men lining the pavement in front of Howl at the Moon made her stomach turn. These were the scum who sold their children. Clients needed only a few coins to use a child for an hour; a few more coins were required for permanent purchase. The parents didn’t care who bought their offspring. The money meant food, rotgut whiskey, and illegal drugs, all to dull their senses or appease the growl of their bellies.

  He’d been right. She wasn’t ready for this.

  Chapter Five

  Ian glanced back, hoping the captain was keeping a hold on her nerves. She’d appeared so confident earlier, so sure of herself. If looks were capable of murder, he’d no doubt all the sellers lining the outer walls of the club would be dead.

  He stepped up to the glass doors and stopped, waiting until she stood beside him. “Whatever you’ve seen out here, it’s worse beyond the club’s threshold.”

  The frown on her face deepened.

  “You can’t let it affect you. If you do, they won’t talk to us, and we’ll be in the fight of our lives within five minutes. Follow me.” No sense in even double checking her expression at that point. If she failed to get rid of her scowl or appeared to pass judgment on the disgusting acts taking place at every table, they’d be ejected or attacked in minutes.

  The majordomo came from between twin red velvet curtains hanging from the ceiling, the only barrier between the innocuous lobby area and the sin beyond. Ian heard the jazz, though. The mournful sound of Delta blues, a sad, wailing cry as if the city itself were in pain, infected every cell.

  “We’re here to see Janken,” he announced without artifice, opening his jacket to show his lack of weapons. The sharpest item he carried was a pen knife in his boot for picking locks if a quick escape became necessary.

  “What about her?” The broad shouldered, burly man pointed an uncharacteristically short, knobby finger at the captain.

>   She appeared bored, but opened the sides of her coat. Her electo wand hung from her belt, the balisong she’d thrown at him before out of sight.

  The majordomo turned his hand palm up and grunted at her, “The wand, here.”

  Relinquishing the weapon came with no outburst, no fight. The only thing she said was, “Can we go now?” coupled with a yawn. A woman bored or, at the very least, disinterested.

  “Janken is playing now, but he’ll see you when he’s through. Sit at the first table to the left of him.” Instructions given, the majordomo swept the velvet curtain to the side and allowed them to pass.

  Ian motioned her to move in front of him. He wanted to gauge her reaction, and, surprisingly, she didn’t even glance at the couples embracing around her. At least one partner at each table was a child, some in their teenage years and some younger. All manner of depraved men and women accompanied them, wanting everything from conversation to more. Booths lined the walls, and tables were scattered throughout the room. The balcony up top housed the private suites with drop curtains which offered discretion to those who’d rather their transgressions be confidential. Everything was trimmed in either white or blood red, the two colors so often used to symbolize purity and sin.

  When they reached their assigned table, Sorella paused, focusing on the swaying head of Janken, his white, shoulder-length hair moving with the music as he attacked the strings of his guitar with long, pointed fingernails. “The better to pluck with,” Ian remembered him sharing once upon an evening, years ago. Sorella seemed mesmerized, caught in the twangs and vibrations of the melody. She appeared to have locked onto the same things he had.

  “Would you like to sit?” he whispered and pulled out a chair. He enjoyed the little shiver that started at her shoulders before reverberating through the rest of her body.

  She glanced at him, then the chair, and sat down without a verbal response. He moved into the seat next to her and looked back to their host.

  The crooner had finished his song and was brushing his hair out of his face with one thin hand. Pale and pasty, his skin held little pigment. His eyes, too, seemed devoid of color, resembling snow more than anything else. People called him the King of White; some even claimed he was the offspring of the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans and a Danish prince.

  “Merci, mon petites.” The albino’s voice sounded like gravel in the cylinder-shaped microphone. “I’ll be breaking for a short time. Youse keep yourselves amused and stay out of trouble.”

  “Remember…let me do most of the talking,” Ian said as soon as the crooner stood and started making his way to the edge of the stage.

  The captain merely nodded, taking in the other members of the band, who didn’t leave their spots on the stage.

  Instead, they started playing again, a perky jazz tune with a good measure of saxophone. A few of the couples positioned around the room came out to the dancing square and began swaying or grinding to the beat. Ian kept his expression neutral although his gut churned at the visual.

  Their host grunted as he pulled back a chair, and, as a guest, Ian stood, as manners dictated. The captain didn’t.

  “Standing on ceremony as if you were still a gentleman?” Janken chuckled.

  Ian sat and smiled. “Mama’s rules ne’er do disappear.”

  “Mine did, thank God.” The albino tapped his long fingernails on the table top in perfect rhythm with the beat from the stage. “Who’s your friend? She smells like a garden.”

  “Castoa—”

  “Captain Castoa of the Liberté.” She’d cut him off and extended a hand in peace.

  For a blind man, Janken saw remarkable things, and he grabbed her, leaning forward over the small table. He flipped her palm between both of his and sniffed at her wrist. Without rebuke, she submitted to his eccentricities while Ian experienced a sudden desire to throw the skin trader from his seat and put the captain’s fancy knife through him.

  “Divine. Absolutely delicious.” Then he let her go. “Such a pretty scent for a woman around filth and dirt all the time.”

  They all fell silent. Ian couldn’t find his words at the moment, a red haze of jealousy winding its course through him. Being jealous of a blind man seemed a bit ridiculous, but at the same time he wanted permission to touch her, to smell her—liberties denied him that Janken had taken without even bothering to ask..

  Luckily, he didn’t have to produce the next piece of conversation; the albino did the work for him. “Now what does a marked want so bad he’s willing to darken my establishment with his sinful presence?”

  Time for business. “I need to find Luther.”

  “You’re not the only one.”

  “I’ve got merchandise he’s requested, but a delay had me late to our meeting point. I know you can tell me where he’s hiding.” He’d bet his life on it.

  The two illegal-dealing men weren’t friends, but information about anything and everything black market or top secret seemed to be in the albino’s possession. The Cursed were always in need of intelligence. Information allowed them to stay one step ahead of the authorities and determine who’d want their services.

  “I may know something, but the rules still apply.”

  Ian nodded. “Yes, and she’s got something good to share.”

  A white eyebrow rose. “Eh? What could this marvelous woman who captains an airship full of foul-smelling, disgusting men have to tell me that would equal such a trade?”

  Her time was up. Sorella didn’t want to dole out the one secret keeping her safe, but she’d run out of choices. “Merchant, leave us.”

  “Are you sure?” Again, a concerned tone, as if he worried for her safety. More likely, he feared for his own as men in her world were want to do.

  She nodded. The fewer people who knew, the better. Yet once she had shared it, Janken would no doubt auction her secret to the highest bidder.

  Ian rose from the chair and stepped over to the stage, keeping his back to them. The distance and the music reduced the chances he’d hear something he shouldn’t.

  “Come, ma fille. Tell me your secret.”

  She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. How long since she’d said her real name out loud? “My name is not Captain Castoa. It’s Sorella Corvino.”

  “La farce.” He laughed, loud. The gravel in his throat rattled, giving away the extent of his smoking habit.

  As if to prove her point, he pulled a cigarette case from his jacket and offered her a smoke. Sorella shook her head in polite refusal. He shrugged and went about lighting one for himself. “You don’t laugh, so I must believe it, then. Fair Princess, our soon-to-be-queen, they search for you everywhere. Papers run charming articles about your self-imposed religious studies, fooling the American public, and claim you won’t wed the president’s son until you’ve completed them. The truth is, you’ve marked yourself. Why?”

  “I don’t wish to marry.”

  “Non, a beauty like you deserves to be loved. You know I’m part French; my mother told me the greatest thing we can give one another is love, especially of the flesh, the ability to feel pleasure. Hence, I encourage it here.”

  She kept silent because, to her, this place represented forced, sold, and disgusting recreation. Children were being exploited in every corner of the room. Screw the bet. If she could take every sick adult in the place out without retribution on her crew, she’d do it. No matter if it meant hours in prayer as payment. Yet, Ian had warned her their host already knew the Liberté’s port number and berth as he kept apprised of all ships porting in New Orleans.

  “The type of pleasure I like, my fiancé wouldn’t support.” Especially since she’d been tasked to kill him and his father.

  “Ah, I knew some sort of twisted fetish drove you. I sensed such a thing.”

  Another moment during which she opted for silence, even though she wanted to say things to make his balls shrivel rather than placate his ego.

  “Ian.
” A pale hand waved in the air. “Come back over and join us.”

  The merchant did as instructed, and a nervous brick took up residence in her stomach. Did their blind musician have loose lips? Not possible if he wanted to remain in business.

  “Her information is good.” Janken took a drag from his cigarette and blew out rings of smoke directly at her, taunting her. “And quite valuable.”

  “So you’ll trade?” Ian sounded a bit eager, his eyes wide as he glanced first at her then at the skin trader. Selfish bastard.

  Janken nodded and licked his lips. “I will, but only if le capitaine confesses her favorite guilty pleasure.”

  So he wanted a demonstration. She’d half a mind to cut his throat. It’d be quick and messy, but….

  Then she heard the scream. More like a wail. Turning in her chair and ignoring Ian’s senseless tapping on her arm, she glimpsed a hunched wall of a man. Standing taller than six feet, he was dragging a girl toward his lap. The toothless grin, paunchy belly, and soot-colored clothes gave away his poor status. Today he’d been paid a small wage and had decided to spend it on a child, the most affordable being this small waif with waist-length ash-blond hair, a threadbare dress, and a face filled with fear as she struggled against her villain’s arms.

  The child’s pleas of “no” and “stop” were answered with a slap to the face, knocking her to the floor.

  “Let me show you pleasure,” Sorella said to Janken, shrugging Ian’s hand away from her. In the course of ten steps, she reached the struggling pair. The ugly molester had risen from his seat and was leaning over his prey. Sorella slipped a balisong from the hidden holster inside her vest, flipped it, and plunged the blade into the bastard’s arm pit, a quick jab and release followed with additional stabs to both kidneys and, finally, his stomach.