Page 12 of Thief of Night (The Charlatan Duology #2)

Mr. Punch

Twenty-five minutes later they pulled into the driveway of a house in the woods of Leverett.

Light spilled out of a wall of glass windows, illuminating a sloping yard.

The edge of a cliff was visible along one side, with the carpet of trees below.

A FOR SALE sign was prominently displayed on the lawn.

“This belongs to a Cabal member?” Charlie asked. She wasn’t sure what she’d been picturing, but Bellamy’s masks operated out of an abandoned tower in the woods, complete with spray paint and crumbling cement. This place had a two-car garage.

“No,” the ginger-haired man told her. “Mr. Punch is borrowing it.”

“Mr. Punch?” Charlie echoed.

“New head of the puppeteers,” said the guy with the goatee.

“What happened to Malik?” Charlie hadn’t particularly liked him—being able to control the bodies of others was an appalling use of shadow magic and Charlie was highly suspicious of anyone who wanted to specialize in it, much less lead that Cabal—but he’d never done anything to give her a specific grudge against him.

“Salt made Malik look weak. Someone inside the organization was eventually going to make a move.”

A coup then, and a recent one. She wondered if Bellamy and Vicereine had supported it or been caught unawares.

The ginger-haired man led her to the door, opened it, and went inside. She followed. In a cathedral-ceilinged living room with huge windows, an older man in a robe and pajamas sat alone on a green velvet couch. His eyes were closed.

“Charlie Hall,” the man said, without opening his eyes. “We meet at last.”

A shiver shook her like she was a pair of pants on a clothesline.

This had to be the new puppeteer leader, except, not quite.

Was it the homeowner he was puppeteering?

She tried to push down her horror and think rationally.

Mr. Punch had a way to hide his identity and show off at the same time. It was meant to freak her out.

And it was working.

“Where’s Vicereine?” Charlie asked, dread in the pit of her stomach.

“Does it matter?” Mr. Punch said with the other man’s throat.

Charlie had assumed that Vicereine had been behind this. That she’d been the one to bring Charlie in for a scolding, no matter who else was in attendance. Now she wasn’t so sure. “I just don’t know why I’m here.”

“Because you serve the Cabals and I am a Cabal leader. You may call me Mr. Punch although that is no more my name than this is my face.” The man made a horrible smile, as though his muscles were fighting against one another. “Now, can you guess why I’ve brought you here?”

“I finished my last assignment.” Charlie gestured toward the bruise from where the guy in the bar had hit her, which wasn’t accurate, but was easier than showing the glued-up wound on her back. “If that’s what this is about.”

“You’re fast,” said Mr. Punch. “And maybe foolish.”

“I’m ambitious,” Charlie said. “My ambition is for Vince and me to be done with this gig as quickly as possible.”

“Shadow, how are you enjoying the work?” asked Mr. Punch.

Charlie turned to see Red standing behind her, appearing as solid as the rest of them. She hadn’t noticed him manifest and wondered why he had. “Onyx floor,” he mouthed to her.

Fuck, she’d lost her touch. She’d walked across it and hadn’t even noticed.

“ Shadow? ” the man repeated.

There was a pause where Charlie worried Red was going to refuse to answer the new head of the puppeteers unless she commanded him.

“Killing fellow Blights?” Red returned, finally, in a silky voice that was all threat. “What could I fail to enjoy about that?”

Charlie noted the surprise on the faces of the two men who had brought her there. They knew he could speak, but they still looked shocked when he did. Maybe they hadn’t expected sarcasm.

The Vince she’d known had hunched his shoulders in order to seem smaller, had tried to take up less space in every room.

But Red emanated violence. He didn’t even think to make himself seem docile; he chafed at the end of a leash and didn’t mind who knew it.

As his eyes met hers, he smiled, but there wasn’t an ounce of gentleness in it.

“Let’s sit down to business,” said Mr. Punch. “Have a seat, Charlie Hall.”

Then the man in the robe seemed to deflate as a shadow slid away from him, across the floor, toward the landing.

“Yes, sit,” said a second voice from the stairs. It was a woman in her midfifties with silvery hair, wearing only a nightgown. Her eyes were closed and she swayed slightly, as though deep asleep. Was that the other homeowner?

“Dramatic,” said Red.

“Creepy,” Charlie added, her gaze sweeping the room. If she could spot the line that connected his shadow to wherever Mr. Punch was hiding, she’d have a shot at figuring out who he was. But there were too many other shadows in the room. “Done playing with your dolls yet?”

“Don’t be rude,” said the redheaded man, who immediately put his hand to his lips as though he couldn’t believe those words came from his throat. Mr. Punch again.

“Sit,” the man in pajamas on the couch said as the puppeteer’s shadow returned to him. “Before I lose patience.”

Not wanting the next command he gave her to come out of her own mouth, Charlie sat on the velvet couch. Red moved behind her, close enough that if she leaned back, she’d be touching him, which she definitely didn’t want to do.

“Now let’s be hospitable,” Mr. Punch told the redhead he’d recently controlled. “Bring tea.”

The man frowned, but headed for the kitchen.

“Coffee, if there is any,” Charlie called after him, trying to act like things were normal. Like this was fine.

The woman still stood on the stairs, eyes closed, swaying slightly. Somehow, she didn’t fall. “I have an assignment for you, Hierophant,” she said, with Mr. Punch’s intonation.

It had only been a week since Vicereine had told Charlie to hunt down the Blight in the warehouse, after some baby glooms saw it hanging around an underpass by the river. The last thing Charlie needed was another job. But it seemed she was about to get one.

At least there’d be a bounty.

“There was a massacre at the Grace Covenant Church,” he said.

“The one in Hatfield,” Charlie supplied, thinking of the televisions in the Walgreens and the reporter talking about dead people in the basement.

Thinking of the milky stickiness of the stems she’d been holding when her mother had married Travis.

They’d been freshly picked from the side of the road.

She’d been hopeful about her future, about her family. “With the cult.”

“The victims were meeting regularly in the church basement to discuss shadow magic,” said Mr. Punch, speaking through the man in his pajamas on the couch. “They were hoping to quicken their shadows. You must be familiar with people like that.”

Charlie wasn’t sure if he was suggesting that Charlie herself had been one of those hopefuls—not true, well, not entirely true—or that he knew about Posey. “I’m familiar” was all Charlie said.

“They weren’t part of any cult,” Mr. Punch told her. “One of our people was there. He gave a lecture that night. No one has seen him since. I want you to figure out what happened.”

“Me?” Charlie held up her hands in warding. This was outside the role of the Hierophant and not something she was likely to get paid for either. “I’m no good at investigating disappearances or finding murderers. I hunt down rogue Blights and steal stuff.”

“I thought you were ambitious,” he said.

She stalled out at that. “What are you saying?”

“Kill the Blight responsible. Find Rooster Argent and hide his involvement. I don’t want any of this coming back on the Cabals, do you understand?”

“A Blight caused that?” Charlie asked.

The redhead returned with a single cup of coffee, obviously instant from the smell.

She took it gratefully. A sip cleared her head a little.

But on the second sip, she realized the guy hadn’t brought anything for Red.

Was that because they didn’t expect Red to ingest food or drink? How unusual was it that he could?

She glanced at him, but she could read nothing of what he was feeling on his face.

You want some? she sent through their bond, lifting the cup. She was still angry with him about the fight they’d had in her bedroom, but not treating him like a person wasn’t any kind of revenge.

Red shook his head.

“You want me to kill a Blight and find a guy named Rooster?” Charlie said, turning back to Mr. Punch’s puppet and trying to pick up the thread of the conversation. “Like cock-a-doodle-doo?”

Since the guy was probably dead, it seemed uncharitable for Charlie to give her opinion about his name. Ah, well. Too late.

“Yes.” Mr. Punch went on, “Eliminate everyone and everything responsible for those deaths. Hush things up. Find Rooster or whatever is left of him. Clear his name. The last thing the Cabals need is more bad press, more threats of government oversight. Make this go away, keep whatever you discover quiet, and I’ll convince the others to set you both free from the role of Hierophant.

You must know they will never release your shadow without my intercession. ”

That was a much better reward than a bounty.

“And you think you can convince them?” Charlie liked his offer, especially since it meant there was something to hush up.

Blackmail material to hold over a Cabal leader had to come in useful.

Of course, if he had something big to hide, he might rather she took the knowledge to a freshly dug grave.

Promises were just words. If he was planning on killing her, he was free to offer the moon and stars.

“I can orchestrate freedom for you both,” he said, speaking from a stolen mouth.

Charlie didn’t see how she could get out of this, so she’d better hope he was telling the truth. “Is there anything you can tell us about the massacre? Do you have a reason to think a Blight was involved?”

The words came from the woman on the stairs. “The bodies were exsanguinated.”

Well. That was a reason. An upsetting reason.

“No Blight needs that much blood.” Red frowned. “Want, maybe. But not need.”

The two goons shared an uncomfortable look.

“Should we be concerned about your loyalties, Vincent Carver?” Mr. Punch asked.

A long silence filled the room and Charlie thought again about the cup of coffee the redhead had brought out. How could they ever expect him to be loyal when they hadn’t even brought him a drink?

“No,” Red said finally.

“Bellamy would like to study you,” said Mr. Punch’s puppet. “He thinks he could learn a lot about Blights from doing a little poking and prodding. A few experiments.”

“He’s not a lab rat,” Charlie snapped.

“No. He’s a monster,” Mr. Punch said, although there was reverence in his voice. “Fail me and the shadow will go to the masks to be studied. And you, Charlie Hall, I will turn into a real puppet.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Charlie asked, half-regretting her question as soon as it was out of her mouth.

“I will make you turn on all the people you care about most. You will hurt them and you will remember it, but you won’t be able to stop yourself,” he said. “Do what I ask. I am new to power among the local Cabal leaders. I need allies. Be mine, or be my enemy.”

Big promise, bigger threat, and nothing to bind this guy to his end of the deal.

Not only that, but he apparently equated “failing at a difficult task” with “being his enemy.” Not great.

Charlie had barely managed to take down the last Blight she’d faced, and one that had killed so many people would be much worse.

Still, he had her. His threats were too scary and his offer too good.

“I’ll do your job,” Charlie said. “How do I contact you if I need to ask you more questions? Or to let you know what I discover.”

“I’ll find you,” said the woman on the stairs, speaking as though in a dream.

“I’ll find you,” said the man on the couch, in his robe and pajamas, feet bare on the carpet.

“I’ll find you,” said the goateed man. He wiped off his mouth with the back of his sleeve once he was done speaking, looking disgusted.

Charlie stood. “I better get to it then.” She set her mug down on the coffee table.

The man in the robe said nothing. His face had gone slack.

He looked like someone you might pass in the supermarket, checking the eggs for cracks.

Someone’s dad, bringing out the ladder with a groan to put up holiday lights in anticipation of the kids coming home for Christmas.

Would he wake on the sofa with no memory of how he got there, and a dirty coffee cup in front of him?

Would his wife find herself on the stairs in the morning and worry over dementia?

Neither would know how Mr. Punch used them, and somehow that made it worse.

No one should cover for the puppeteer leader. No one should hush things up.

Which made Charlie no one, because even knowing that, she was going to do exactly what he wanted.