Page 23 of Blackwicket (Dark Hall #1)

I scanned the theater and scrutinized shadowy corners as I left.

The man at the podium by the entrance wasn’t Coppe.

He wished me a good night as I dashed into the cold.

The biting wind stung my cheeks and ears as I paused, unsure of my next move.

The tides of tourists swirled around me, and for a moment, I didn’t know which way was up.

I willed myself to go in any direction, and at last, I took a step—toward the train station.

The ten-minute walk gave me room to ruminate, and when I reached the busy taxi posts, where arriving travelers were securing rides, I’d decided I wouldn’t leave yet.

I wanted closure, answers, but was in danger of getting caught in the machinations of the Brom.

I’d ask for a departure schedule, prices, and make my plans to beat a hasty retreat when it became necessary.

This time of evening, no line waited at the Ticketmaster’s window. A man about as old as Darren but much wider in the middle, and happier for it, smiled at me, his charming face red-cheeked beneath his white moustache.

“I’m here to browse the departure schedule, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course!” He offered me the ledger listing the week’s departures and arrivals. “That’ll take you to three days after next. Evening’s cheapest. When were you planning on leaving us, Ms…” he asked, raising his white eyebrows high. It wasn’t a sinister question, but I buckled, adopting old habits.

“Jonas,” I replied with a warm smile of my own. “Elyse Jonas. I’m afraid my husband couldn’t meet me for our winter holiday, so I need to decide when to return home. I’d rather not vacation alone.” The candid, open expression I adopted was that of a woman with nothing to hide.

“That’s a shame,” the man commiserated. “The best time to depart is first thing in the morning. Few people are awake then, so you’ll have plenty of peace. If your husband wouldn’t miss you too much, I’d recommend two days from now, there are fewer seats booked than usual.”

He was so pleasant it made my bones ache.

“If you buy a ticket today, I’ll give you a discount,” he said. “The railroad men don’t want their train cars to be empty, and my life is easier when they’re happy. If your plans change, ask for me. Christopher Thatcher. I’ll get it switched for you, Ms. Jonas, no troubles.”

I had the money—barely, and the safety net was too necessary, so I acquiesced.

“You’ve talked me into it, Mr. Thatcher,” I replied.

“Good, good!” He said, slapping the wooden sill. He retrieved a beat-up clipboard and pulled a pair of spectacles from his pocket, placing them neatly on his large, rosy nose.

“Ms. Elyse Jonas,” he repeated, jotting down my name. But when he looked at me, a smile lifting the ends of his moustache towards his eyes, there was a change in him, a sort of halting like a toy whose wind-up mechanism had stalled.

I kept my smile on, bright, leaning forward to see what he was writing.

“It’s E-l-y-s-e.” I said.

He continued to stare, his grey eyes magnified by the thick lenses of his spectacles. He abandoned his clipboard, a sheen of sweat appearing on his brow as though it were suddenly summer.

“Mr. Thatcher?” I said, concerned he was having a heart attack.

“Eleanora Blackwicket?” He breathed at last. “God, you’re the mirror image of Isolde.”

I forced my comforting smile to remain steady.“You’re mistaken, Mr. Thatcher. Are you well? Do you need me to call for someone?”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his jovial demeanor becoming anxious haste. “If you’d come any sooner, I… William Nightglass was just here.”

To ensure my exit was caved in.

“Please,” I said, quiet, hopeful.

“I wish I could help you,” Mr. Thatcher said, tears bright in his eyes. “I can’t go against a Nightglass.”

The flimsy scaffolding of my alternate persona crumbled.

“You could.” It was a condemnation.

“No. The cost is too high. I’m sorry.”

Taking the glasses from his nose, he raised his arm to grab hold of the rolling panel at the window, snapping it shut.

I lingered, hoping Mr. Thatcher would reopen the window, gesture for me to come forward, and risk his life to sell me a ticket.

As the station clock struck the hour, I left.

No driver would take me to the next town with snow covering the cliffside roads, even if they didn’t know who I was, and walking would be as reckless as trying to swim.

My earlier plan to stay a few more days was no consolation to the new, persistent impulse to flee.

But now, there was nowhere to go but home.

Home.

I rejected the word bitterly as I exited the station. This wasn’t home. It was a cage, and I was trapped between the Brom and Authority, options of Annulment or a life of servitude as a whore to the Nightglass family’s suspiciously saccharine ideologies.

I walked briskly, seeking to expel the nervous energy built up since my arrival, threatening to drive me screaming mad. As I reached the second block, heading to town, a man, dressed in an old brown overcoat a size too large, wool flat cap pulled low, stepped into my path.

“Miss your train, Ms. Blackwicket?” he asked. Though I couldn’t see his face clearly in the dark, it hardly mattered; he'd the same dockman lilt as Coppe, the same nasty swagger.

“Tell William his message was clear. I want no more explanation or gangster theatrics. I’ll seek him out when and if I’m ready,” I replied with utmost contempt, attempting to bypass him, only to encounter another figure blocking my path.

A second goon, similarly clad in faded brown, shorter by a head and much younger.

He spat at my feet, prompting me to take a swift step back.

“We don’t have nothin’ to do with William Nightglass, miss. Our boss is a big fan of yours, though. Would love a chat. Sent us to escort you to him, safe and sound.”

“Don’t be stupid,” I countered. “If you know anything about me, you know you can’t make me go anywhere I don’t want to go.”

“Sure, we can.” The taller of them flashed a trench knife pulled from his coat.

He held it with a practiced casualness, used to the weight of the hilt in his palm.

“Magic won’t do you no good with a hole in your guts, girl.

You’ll get me, but I’d get you right back, right under the sternum.

You really want to die on this sidewalk because you were too stubborn to accept a friendly invitation? ”

For the first time, I regretted I didn’t have a curse on me. Exhausted, angry, and thoroughly trapped, I gave up.

“Go ahead,” I offered, weary. The knife wielder released a bark of incredulous laughter as I unbuttoned my coat, pulling it open to expose the threadbare wool vest and linen shirt, inappropriate for the cold.

The thin fabrics would allow a blade to slip through nicely. “There. Under my sternum, you said.”

The second man broke first, casting an uneasy glance at his cohort. Clearly, I wasn’t wanted dead. “Hey, Patrick, ya can’t...”

“Shut it,” my assailant barked, expression twisting. He was being bested, and he wasn’t taking it well, complexion splotchy with rage, grip tight around the hilt.

“You’ve got one swing. Make it count, you sorry little shit,” I growled, ready to court death with a recklessness I’d never entertained. Insulted and happy to oblige, the thug twitched the knife a hair lower in preparation for its inverted arch into my stomach.

“Eleanora.” The voice thundered through the street, and my would-be murderer snapped his head up. He hastily concealed the blade with a motion that seemed magic. The firm touch at my waist was unexpected, and I tensed, but the voice had been familiar.

“You were supposed to wait for me at the lounge,” Inspector Harrow admonished, pulling me into him until my side was pressed against his, possessive. “Who are these deadbeats?”

His voice was dangerous, tinged with a jealousy that posed an explicit threat in its own right.

I could have moved out of his grasp and shattered the facade with my disgust, but Harrow’s presence was making these men uneasy.

His angle was foggy, but I was a beggar, and he was doing something for me.

I briefly wondered how much it would cost.

“We didn’t know the lady was unavailable,” said the younger man, hands shoved deep in his pockets, almost like a child. I considered his face, noticing he barely wasn’t one.

“I’m glad I could clear it up,” Harrow drawled, dismissing them with a quick gesture of his head. “Now fuck off. ”

“Sure, Victor.” The man who’d meant to stab me, raised his palms to show they were empty. “No problems here.”

They slunk off, the youngest glancing back, resulting in his companion giving him a swift box to the back of his skull. Once they were out of earshot, Harrow’s voice reverted to its emotionless cadence: logical and unbothered.

“It’s in both of our best interests if you stop looking like you can’t stand that I’m touching you,” he muttered, steering me to turn to the street with the press of his palm against my lower back.

“I can’t control my face that easily,” I snapped, angry that I felt relieved to still be alive, that it had been Harrow who’d made sure I was.

“Then for the next few minutes,” he said, walking me into the street, waving to stop oncoming traffic. “Think of your old beau. What’s his name… Ben.

As we finished crossing and stepped onto the other walkway, I wondered if Ben would have been brave enough to step into the middle of that and concluded it unlikely. I spotted the Inspector’s roadster parked nearby and realized where we were going.

“You expect me to get in a car with you?” I asked with some disdain.

“I’m returning you to the house. It’ll be a good time. You can tell me all about your eventful evening,” he replied flatly.

“Like hell.”