Page 27 of The Unweaver (Unwoven Fates #1)

C ora didn’t know if it was her outfit or the Unweaver’s reputation that drew every pair of eyes in the Emerald Club to her.

Every table and barstool were packed, and more people lined the walls, queued at the golden bar, and milled about the dance floor. Was Bane’s posh club always this crowded? Or had they come to gawk at the freakish spectacle on piano?

Any hope she would remain unnoticed evaporated the moment she jostled through the crowd towards the stage. Conversations ground to a halt. Recognition and fear struck their faces as they parted for her like a jewel-toned wave. Their gazes felt like sticky fingers on her as she passed. Cora regretted not only her existence, but her wardrobe choice.

Earlier, Bane had given her what might generously be called a dress.

“What do you expect me to do with this?” She’d eyed the slip of black gossamer. “Floss?”

She had reconsidered the dress while preparing for the night and consequently working through a bottle of gin. Liquored lubrication for improved decision making.

Not even an entire bottle gave her the liquid courage to pull the floss-dress off. So she opened another bottle. Sure, Bane had said no drinking tonight. The lying bastard said a lot of things. Not everyone was capable of his admirable self-restraint.

After the Sciomancer’s ritual and her foray into the forbidden room, Cora had needed a drink. And with the anticipation of seeing Teddy’s murderer twisting in her stomach, she had needed several drinks throughout the day.

An idea struck when she tossed aside the floss-dress. She raided Bane’s closet, and after a moment’s drunken deliberation, she decided to just try on one of his impeccable suits. Losing her battle with the black silk tie, Cora caught a glimpse of someone familiar from the corner of her eye. Her head whipped around.

Teddy?

Disappointment crushed her. It wasn’t Teddy, but her own reflection. Suit-clad, she could pass as her twin. Albeit somewhat less sophisticated given the oversized jacket, cuffed trousers, and rolled up sleeves. Bane was a few inches taller and much broader in the shoulders than her.

Cora headed to the Emerald Club and whatever awaited her.

Enough booze now hummed in her blood that everything took on a pleasant vagueness. The colors ran and the sounds faded like a dream, blurred and full of sensations.

While her outfit drew many raised brows, she could spot the mages in the crowd by their furtive glances. To them, she might as well be wearing the Unweaver’s fetid cloak and sacrificing humans onstage.

Though she hated to admit it, the Unweaver’s reputation did have some perks. She’d cut through the bar’s long queue of people dressed, or undressed, in their evening finery.

Anita, with a wink and a wave, thrust a drink in her hand and said the most magical words Cora had ever heard: “Band drinks free, love.”

Ignoring the queue’s grumbles and whispers, Cora tossed the drink back. The cocktail was a dangerously delicious marriage of gin and champagne. Worlds better than the coffin varnish the Starlite served.

Anita poured her another and eyed the suit. “Is that who's I think it is?” she asked. At Cora’s sly smile, she threw her head back laughing.

Ravi, tuning his trumpet, gave her a startled double-take when she neared the stage. “God, you look just like him in a suit,” he mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

Even Guy, his twice-broken nose bandaged, contented himself with some glares and a hissed, “Don’t rot the piano, murderer,” as he checked the microphone’s wiring.

Cora stepped onto the stage with the breathless anticipation before a guillotine dropped. Sitting at the grand piano, she squinted past the bright stage lights but could make out little of the crowd. Perhaps for the best.

Sipping the cocktail lightened the weight of staring eyes. A pleasant, buzzing numbness blanketed her thoughts.

She tried to focus on the piano keys swimming in a sea of ivory and ebony. Playing had always been a release before. To lose herself in music, if only for a few moments. Now she doubted she’d be able to keep rhythm. Instead of confronting Marcel Durbec, she’d be serenading him with bloody jazz.

Cora reached for her drink but it was snatched away. A presence loomed at her back and a deep voice growled in her ear, “What fuckin’ part of no drinking are you having trouble understanding?”

Bane stood behind her with an imposing scowl. Cora wanted to wrinkle his immaculate suit and muss his perfectly slicked back hair. Pry all the secrets he was withholding from his lips.

“The part where you don’t say yes drinking ,” she said in a valiant effort not to slur her words. It didn’t work.

“Do. Not. Fuck. This. Up.”

His scowl turned to surprise as his gaze skated over her wearing his suit. While the slightly oversized fit might detract from the overall elegance, Cora was pleased with the results. Bane, in spite of himself, also seemed pleased. Shaking his head, the corners of his mouth threatened a smile.

“Maddening,” he muttered.

A motion behind Bane drew her attention. Several people shot her looks, speculating behind gloved hands and feathered fans. “They’re all staring at me,” she said.

“Of course they are. You’re beautiful.”

With that one word, Bane gathered all her breath. He vanished past the glaring stage lights. Cora blinked after him. It had been a statement, not a compliment, but her heart stuttered just the same. No one had called her beautiful except Malachy, in a breathless dream.

The countdown of drumsticks yanked her attention back. The band was starting up for the night’s entertainment. Her hands flew over the piano keys and the band fell into a lively, swinging rhythm.

The Emerald Club’s band was more skilled than any she’d played with before, and not entirely due to magic. Superior instruments and an audience not whooping and hollering over the music greatly improved the acoustics.

The piano’s rich notes were more intoxicating than any cocktail, so smooth they resonated in her blood. Through melodies familiar and improvised, Cora immersed herself in the croon of Ravi’s trumpet, the deep thrum of Tim Tambo’s standup bass, the sensual purr of Dimitri’s saxophone.

Applause dimly registered when the first set ended an hour later. Cora loosened her tie and flagged down a waitress who blessedly brought her another cocktail.

Her gaze locked with a pair of obsidian eyes across the crowded club. This time they weren’t winking but scolding her from afar. Bane’s disapproving frown told her a tongue-lashing would be forthcoming. She toasted him with an unrepentant smile. What did it matter to the secret-keeping bastard? She was performing as commanded. Her eyes slid to the man beside him. The glass froze halfway to her lips.

The club muted. Her focus sharpened on the slight, middle-aged man wearing a burgundy suit and mustard tie. With sweeping hands and obsequious smiles, he attempted to ingratiate himself to a stone-faced Bane. Wan skin stretched tight over his skull, shellacked by dark, thinning hair. His trim mustache twitched when their eyes met. He glanced away, licking his lips like a frog in search of flies.

Heedless of the band’s chatter and the crowd's attention, Cora could only stare at Marcel Durbec. Hatred writhed in her gut, afloat in a sea of booze. She felt the Sanguimancer staining her with his eyeballs as he kept glancing at her.

Did he recognize her as the Unweaver, or was it Teddy’s face he saw on her own? He must have gotten a close look while he carved her twin’s heart out. The resemblance was uncanny, but if he didn’t know who Cora was now, he would soon. She would unweave Marcel Durbec one thread at a time.

Bane and Yvonne, stunning in a peacock feather dress, escorted Durbec into a private room curtained off in the back. Cora watched Durbec’s glossy head bob away through the crowd. The Phytomancer drew the emerald curtains shut behind them.

“Break,” Cora called out to the band.

“We can’t take our fifteen until after midnight,” Ravi said, quiet but adamant. “Mal’s orders.”

“You see him here now?” She gestured at the club, knocking her drink over. “Just a quick break.”

The room spun when Cora stood. She grasped the piano for support and stumbled down the steps, winding between dancers and tables to her quarry. She barely noticed the crowd parting for her as she made a beeline to the private room.

Beyond the curtains was a room full of mirrors.

Gilded mirrors lined the emerald satin walls, reflecting everything and everyone in a dizzying multitude. Crystal chandeliers bathed the room in an ethereal sparkle. People sat around a mirrored table, and it took Cora a moment to separate the dozen well-dressed men and mostly undressed women from their reflections.

Eyes feverishly bright, they were drinking too much, laughing too loud, and snorting lines of the Phytomancer-enchanted snow the club was renowned for. Tendrils of smoke from cigars and opium-laced cigarettes mingled with fine perfumes and colognes. A heady aroma of indulgence.

Cora’s gaze landed on her target. Murderer .

The room collapsed to the vile man giving her a onceover. Hunger glittered in his eyes. Booze curdled in her gut. Reflections of Marcel Durbec surrounded her from every angle. In one mirror she glimpsed herself. A woman possessed.

Bane appeared in front of her looking like he wasn’t the only one capable of murder. She dragged her gaze away from Durbec to meet his glare. He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her into what could be mistaken for an intimate embrace. Cora knew better. This wasn’t the easy familiarity he’d shared with Yvonne. This was a cage. They stood toe to toe in matching suits, gazes clashing. His irises were spreading like ink through milk.

“The band’s taking fifteen—”

“I gave you one job,” Bane hissed in her ear. “I told you no drinking or—”

“I know, I know. I’ll behoove—behave myself.”

“You are fuckin’ this up. Playing piano was supposed to keep you from doing something stupid, and you went and did it anyway. Get out of here.” He ushered her towards the curtains. “Now.”

Their gazes met in a mirror. From the depths of her gin-soaked mind stirred a memory of looking into another mirror and Malachy’s blue eyes gazing back. Was this also a dream? No, the arm banded around her was very real.

“Your eyes,” she said. “The black is bleeding into the white.”

Bane drew back sharply and looked away. “Either Anita sobers you up, or you go home and sleep it off. You are steaming drunk right now.”

“Hey, I resen—resemble that comment. I can’t just go when he’s here. What are we bloody waiting for?”

“I’ll handle it. Go home or I will fuckin’ carry you there.”

She grabbed his lapels when the room cartwheeled. “You know what your problem is?”

He took a bracing breath. “An alarmingly high alcohol tolerance and predilection for challenging women?”

“You”—she jabbed his chest with each word—“need to lighten up.”

“You know what your problem is? Other than the obvious.” He motioned at her on swaying feet. “You need to—”

“Won’t you introduce us to your enchanting mademoiselle, Monsieur Bane?” came an oily voice like dogshit squishing between her toes.

Cora whipped around. Their hushed argument had drawn a roomful of spectators, but her eyes were trained on only one of them.

Marcel Durbec licked his lips. “Does mademoiselle desire a drink?”

“I never thought I’d say this,” said a ruddy-faced man, “but that bird looks smashing in a suit. Why don’t you take a seat beside me, sweetheart?” He poured Cora a glass of champagne, most of which sloshed onto the half-naked woman on his lap to a chorus of laughter.

Cora and the strawberry blonde lap adornment recognized each other at the same moment. Paling, Sloane Kilbride looked at Cora like she was the devil incarnate. Despite the sudden urge to flee, Cora did derive some small measure of perverse pride at striking fear into the heart of a shadow mage.

When Cora reached for the proffered champagne, Bane gave her a near imperceptible shake of his head and a very perceptible tightening of his arms.

The man looked between them, his ruddy face cracking into a grin. “Is she yours, Mal?”

“She can speak for herself.” Cora wriggled out of Bane’s fierce hold. “And she belongs to no one.”

“ Coquin ,” Durbec chuckled. The simpering desperation of his laugh grated on her nerves.

“That the new piano player?” asked a flapper with a rhinestone headband. “You were brilliant. Stay and have a drink, hon.”

“Cora needs to get back to work.” Bane fisted the back of her jacket to keep her in place.

“Oh, just one drink, Mal.”

Knowing Bane wouldn’t risk tearing his own suit, Cora tugged out of his grasp to take the champagne. “Fuck it.” She knocked it back, and the ruddy man refilled her glass with a wink and an Atta girl .

Introductions were made and promptly forgotten. The ruddy man was a judge—Forley? Farley? The balding man in a tuxedo was Lord Something-or-Other. The others’ names went in one ear and out the other. Yvonne, speaking with Bane in a low voice rich like honey, ignored Cora. A smile played on the Phytomancer’s cherry red lips as she toyed with the antique locket on a chain around her neck.

More champagne was poured. Drunken banalities were exchanged. Cora had half an ear for the chit chat, humming agreeable noises when necessary. Her attention was fixated on Durbec. She pictured all the things she would rot off of him as he prattled on to a bored flapper.

You murderer. You bootlicking worm. You killed Teddy. I will kill you.

The judge was looking at Cora expectantly. Had he asked her a question? He’d been complaining about his wife, whom she assumed was not the Umbramancer astride him. She forced a smile, hoping that response would suffice.

Durbec, mistaking her attention for admiration, approached Cora and sketched an exaggerated bow. Reaching for her hand, he bent to defile it with a kiss. “ Enchanté , mademoiselle.”

Cora yanked her hand back and wiped off the taint of his nearness on her trousers. She couldn’t imagine those delicate, manicured hands carving Teddy up. But she had no doubt Durbec had earned his reputation as a savage butcher by the avaricious glint in his eyes. Who knew all the atrocities those soft hands had committed.

She drew herself up, spine rigid. Never had she been as appreciative of her height as she was now, towering over the slight Frenchman forced to crane his head back to meet her murderous gaze.

“Ah, forgive my forwardness, mademoiselle.” Durbec licked his lips, mustache twitching. “In Paris, we kiss cheeks as well as hands. I am still learning your English customs, though I have been in your fair country since the war ended. I run a charming little shop in Chelsea, trading in art and relics some might even call magical .” He glanced at the humans with a quick, sharp smile. “ Trésors Cachés . Perhaps you have heard of it?”

Cora glowered down at him. Decay seeped through her gloves.

“Ah. I see you are not familiar as your employer, Monsieur Bane, is of my humble business. I was most pleasantly surprised to receive his invitation, as we have not had much occasion to, ah, collaborate. I, Marcel Durbec, am a purveyor of rare and priceless wares.”

“Illegitimate wares, you mean,” the judge chortled.

“Some are legitimacy-challenged wares.” Durbec’s tone was stiff with wounded pride. Expression smoothing, he smiled unctuously at Cora. “I do entertain a certain notoriety.”

“As your rap sheet amply demonstrates,” said the judge.

Durbec’s nostrils flared. “I assure you, sir—”

“Shall we try my most cherished batch?” Yvonne Archambeau, her name as melodic as her voice, unlatched the locket around her neck and dusted white powder onto the mirrored table. “It is enchantingly amorous. Lovelier than folie à deux , the madness shared by two lovers. Sweeter than la petite mort , the pleasure that should always be shared by lovers.” She favored Bane with a coy smile, then turned to her compatriot. “For you, Monsieur Durbec, as our special guest.”

With a flourishing sweep of his hand, Durbec motioned for Cora to do the line in his stead. A veritable martyr of narcotics. She snorted it before Bane or Yvonne could stop her.

The enchanted coke burned up her nostrils and across her sinuses like mustard gas. Energy was a lightning bolt to the heart, skittering across her nerves in frenetic pulses. Her brain moved faster than her body, a sprint to time’s loping strides. Lights were brighter, colors more vibrant, sensations more raw.

This snow was sublime. Sublimated sublimity. Addictingly euphoric. Leagues beyond the baking powder they hawked at the Starlite.

Nose twitching, Cora bared her teeth in a smile. “ Merci , Durbec.”

“ S'il te pla?t , mademoiselle, call me Marcel.”

“My pleasure, Durbec.”

The Sanguimancer sidled up to Cora and she scooted away until her back was pressed into a mirror, every muscle drawn taut. Bile rose higher in her throat with each embellished word out of Durbec’s mouth as he droned on. His breath, warm and sour, wafted across her face.

“Why do you look so familiar, mademoiselle?” Because you murdered my twin, arsehole . “Maybe it is because you have been in my dreams, non ?”

I will rot your heart out. After I have the spirit vessel, death will come for you, Marcel Durbec.

Cora, wiping the coke off her nose, turned to Yvonne while Durbec was midsentence. “My compliments to the chef.”

Yvonne’s brows rose in gentle arches. She glanced at Bane, and Cora caught his subtle nod in a mirror. Her wary gaze returned to Cora as she delicately backed away.

Up close, Yvonne’s sable bob was threaded with silver. To Cora’s increasing dismay, this only made the Phytomancer more attractive. Elegantly strolling through her forties, the faint lines radiating from her emerald eyes and supple mouth spoke of a thousand pleasures.

Jealousy slithered in Cora’s belly. She would never live up to this beautiful woman.

Cora met Bane’s gaze. He chatted with Durbec and the judge, but his eyes followed her. She rolled up her shirtsleeves to keep from fidgeting and asked Yvonne, “So, how long have you had the pleasure of working for our Irish overlord?”

Yvonne dismantled her reservations with a dazzling smile. A smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Their emerald facets had hardened, taking Cora’s measure with cool aloofness.

“I met Mal in Paris before the war, and we grew very close. We were separated, then reunited, under tragedy. Mal welcomed me and my daughter into his home when we fled the bombing for London. Why, he has even helped me start a flower shop in Mayfair that I run with my darling daughter, Rosemarie.”

Cora had no doubt the daughter was a beautiful replica of the mother. Between the flowers she sold to the public and the enchanted drugs she sold in private with Bane, business must be very good. “A magnanimous overlord, indeed.”

Yvonne’s look at Bane lingered like a silent plea. She opened her mouth to respond when Durbec tapped his glass.

“ Mesdames et messieurs . We have much to celebrate, non ? The beginning of a fruitful business venture, I do hope. Let us have a toast! Do you know any toasts, Monsieur Bane?”

“I’m Irish.” Bane raised his glass and others joined in. His gaze landed on Cora. “May you taste the sweetest pleasures that fortune bestowed, and may your friends remember the favors you are owed.”

They clinked glasses, splashing champagne on wool and mink and silk. Cora drank the champagne without tasting it.

“Let us get onto that aforementioned business before the night gets away from us,” Lord Something said. “Unlike Judge Forley, my wife shall not only notice my absence but take considerable exception to it. She shall remark upon it most vehemently should I be detained any longer.”

“Ah, but messieurs . Pleasure before business, non ?” Durbec said. “In Paris, we always do it this way for it tastes the sweetest. Come, let us have a dance and enjoy the evening’s delights before we speak of such mundane matters as numbers and, ah, contracts.”

The gentlemen were debating the specific order of business and pleasure when a cloud of brown hair, followed by Guy Haviland’s bandaged face, popped through the curtains. His accusatory eyes narrowed on Cora.

Got you , Guy mouthed, then turned to Bane. “The band’s starting up again, Mal. I’ve been looking everywhere for the piano player. Everyone’s waiting on it.”

“Just a minute.” Cora enunciated carefully so as not to slur. It almost worked.

“Time to leave, Cora.” Bane’s eyes were two pits of brimstone. That quavered into four pits of brimstone.

Guy stalked over and grabbed her arm. “This is how you act on your first day on the job?” he said in a biting undertone. “It was a mistake letting you in the gang. You’re not only a monster, but an unreliable one.”

“Let go.” Cora yanked out of his grip, splashing champagne on both their trousers.

“What’s with this get up, anyways? My Lorena—my sweet bride that you took from me—would’ve never worn something like that. No real woman would be caught dead dressed in a man’s suit. Women should be feminine, but modest. Are you even a woman?”

“That’s a lot of words for no one will have sex with me .”

Emboldened by the several substances in her bloodstream, Cora spoke the words loudly. Too loudly. A hush fell over the room, drawing curious eyes to her and the Electromancer.

Bane pinched the bridge of his nose, but Cora caught the quirk of his lips before he ducked his head.

Yvonne’s laugh, tinkling like a bell, broke the tension. “A dance sounds wonderful, Monsieur Durbec. Shall we? Guy, please lead the way.”

Guy shot Cora one last spiteful look before showing them out. Bane shoved her through the curtains a moment later, growling, “Sober up or go home.”

Cora trailed after the others onto the packed dance floor. Rather than stepping back onto the stage, she squirmed through the press of bodies and followed Durbec’s shellacked head until he was swallowed by the crowd. Finding him was especially difficult as there seemed to be two of everybody.

An oily voice purred in her ear, “Mademoiselle.”