Last Call at the Nightshade Lounge (27 page)

“If you’d stuck with us, he would’ve hired you, too, Bailey,” he said softly. “You wanted to ride your degree to the top of the world. You could’ve done that if you’d just trusted me.
Literally
.” He pointed to the Sears Tower behind them.

“You always tell me to trust you, but you never think things through,” she said. This was her last chance to get through to him—and dangerous or not, he needed to hear her. “You never look at what’s in front of you. And because of that, I’ve had to save your life twice since I moved back here. I
had
to go to Vincent. I needed the Court to verify it. You never would’ve listened, and I couldn’t leave anything to chance. Not—not when it comes to you.” She’d only meant to sound concerned, but her voice cracked.

Zane didn’t notice. “Vincent used you,” he said. “I told you: all he ever wants is to get at Garrett, and you let him use you anyway. Even worse, you let him put you up to—to—” He shook his head in disgust. “A gold rush on a civilian? On my uncle’s business partner? I’d expect that from a twisted bastard like Vincent Long, but you—”

“Oh, get over yourself,” she snapped. “Vincent never told me to use a gold rush. That was all me. I’m not some wide-eyed idiot who got taken in.”

Zane gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Typical Bailey Chen. Always knows best. No matter what it is, you’ve always got a better way, even if I’ve got good reasons for doing it differently. But then again, why should you care what I want? After all,” he added, eyes widening with sarcastic innocence, “your way’s
better
. What else could
possibly
matter?”

“This isn’t about the Fight—”

“It’ll always be about the Fight!” he shot back. “Four years ago you told me I’d never go anywhere as a bartender. You told me you were too good for it.”

Blood rushed to her face. “I didn’t say those things!”

“
You might as well have!
” he shouted, and that she couldn’t deny. “How’s it feel? How’s it feel to see me going places while you’re the one standing still?”

His words were like a cold bullet to her heart. Bailey looked down to where the shot glass sat unattended on the sidewalk, and she blinked away tears. “I won’t remember in a minute anyway,” she said.

“That?” He picked up the shot glass and hurled it to the ground, staining the asphalt with purple and the glitter of broken glass. “You don’t deserve to forget this. It’s four years later, and I’m the one who has everything. A livelihood. A life. A
purpose
. And you wanted to take it away. That’s a shame I want you to live with.”

The noise had awoken Bucket, who wobbled to his feet, groaning. Mona was beginning to show signs of life, too.

“Walk away, Bailey,” said Zane. “It’s what you do best.”

Her eyes lingered on his rumpled suit jacket on the concrete and the form hidden beneath it.

“We’ll handle him,” Zane said. “Leave. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

Bailey wanted to fight, but the energy had left her. She’d lost.

“Her,” she said. “You’ll handle
her
. Her name was Poppy.”

And then she turned and left, finally out of things to do or say.

THE DEVIL’S WATER DICTIONARY.
The Gimlet

A draft to induce ductility

1
. Fill an iced shaker with two ounces of gin and half an ounce each of lime juice and simple syrup
.

2
. Shake well and strain into a martini glass
.

3
. Garnish with a slice of lime, and serve
.

A
s previously mentioned, gin is relatively unpopular in the field, which is a trend the gimlet does nothing to reverse. Its effect—to liquefy the body while allowing it to move with agency—has been described as both enchanting and terrifying. Although solid boundaries cease to be an obstacle, the mental strain of constantly shifting and corralling one’s mass has often proved a trial for the novice bartender.

The gimlet has not been without its supporters. Its inventor, the surgeon and erstwhile bartender Thomas Gimlette of the Royal Navy, used it to safely treat patients while under fire in the mid-eighteenth century, while Hortense LaRue famously used it to apprehend the fugitive Tom Collins by flowing in through the keyhole of an otherwise impenetrable door. But not all of the gimlet’s publicity has been positive; most notoriously, the Hungarian bartender Károly Németh once consumed a gimlet and summarily committed suicide by drinking himself to death.

L
IME
J
UICE
.

Prior to the twentieth century, gimlets (and, indeed, most cocktails) were not made with fresh lime juice. Instead, bartenders were forced to make do with bottled lime cordials, the most famous of which was Rose’s. A certain amount of sweetening was necessary to preserve it, leading to the slightly sugary taste that the modern version emulates through the addition of simple syrup. Post-Blackout, lime juice and cordials rose to prominence as a scurvy treatment rationed by the Navy. Soon enough, those aware of bartending’s true mission found ways to tap into the magical effects of lime juice, and its use spread widely among the British Empire and neighboring territories. As in so many other matters, America remains the odd nation out, and to this day the orange and lemon are far more prevalent citruses in stateside cocktails. When asked about this tendency to avoid the tart green fruit, American bartending historians universally claim that Great Britain “knows what it did” and will not elaborate.

F
IG. 77—
Citrus fraurantifolia
.

Bailey didn’t have a lot of things. She had no job. She basically had no friends. She had absolutely no way of stopping the demonic onslaught that was about to descend on the most populous city in the Midwest.

But perhaps most significantly, she didn’t have a Halloween costume.

“
Fuck!
” She raked through her closet for the umpteenth time even though she knew nothing was in there but old winter coats and a sparkly gown with a wine stain she’d had to hide under a sweatshirt when she came home from her junior prom after-party. She knew that suitable Halloween regalia meant flimsy store-bought outfits for men and varying states of themed undress for women. But among the many things Bailey lacked were the funds to buy a new costume, let alone the time to go shopping or any craft know-how whatsoever. All her old costumes had ended up in a Dumpster after the big move home, but she kept shoving hangers aside, holding out the dimmest hope that her parents had saved
something
.

Nope. Not even a stupid pair of cat ears.

She slumped onto a pile of clothes and resisted the urge to shout curses at the ceiling. Bailey knew that terrible things were about to happen. And she knew she had to do something about it because no one else would. But that was where the certainty ended.

Maybe it won’t be so bad
, an insidious little whisper hissed in her head. People would die at first, but Garrett would avenge them and then devote his eternal life to making sure that never happened again. And it wasn’t like the man was a bad administrator; he’d been the Court’s cornerstone for as long as anyone could remember. If Chicago was going to have a benevolent overlord, Garrett Whelan was the best-case scenario.

Yet no matter what the voice hissed, she always got snagged on the first bit:
people would die
.

The task ahead was so much bigger than she was, it threatened to swallow her whole. She had a good education and some youthful idealism, but what good was that in the face of a broken system and the hundreds of people who’d fight like hell to keep it broken? Normally she could’ve relied on Zane to help but—

She stopped herself. That wasn’t right. It hadn’t been right for the last four years.

And that one’s on you, Bailey
.

She pushed herself upright and reached for
The Devil’s Water Dictionary
. Her eyes scanned martinis, manhattans, and mojitos, but no one drink seemed powerful enough. Even if she stopped Garrett and managed to fight her way through the massive delirium that would descend on the Loop, she’d still have to face down the Cupbearers Court.

For a long moment she just sat there.

Then she thought:
You done now?

She looked around at the wardrobe she’d converted into a floordrobe, at the book in her lap that had a hundred answers but none of the right ones. She resolved that somehow she’d get it together.

And then someone rapped on the front door.

Bailey jolted upright. Her parents, being employed adults, were at work, and for a fleeting moment she wished a grown-up were home to answer for her. But she was the grown-up now.

So Bailey took out her phone, tapped in 9-1-1 (just in case), and then answered the door as calmly as she could. “Can I help you?”

“Are you Bailey Chen?” said a pudgy, bespectacled black man. He was a few years older than she was.

The blood drained from Bailey’s face. If he was a Court enforcer, she was toast. She hadn’t thought to mix a cocktail first, and even if she did hit
SEND
, it wasn’t like the police would get there in time to stop an oblivinum force-feeding.

“Who’s asking?” she said carefully.

“I’m—I know Vincent,” he said. “My name’s Gavin.”

Already calculating her options, Bailey folded her arms. If this guy tried something, she could hurl her cell phone at him and make a break for it, giving her enough time to … call the cops from a pay phone?

“I worked for him and I never saw you.” Bailey racked her brain—where
was
the nearest pay phone? Did they even exist anymore?

“I know. Long & Strong isn’t really my scene. But I’m friendly, I promise.”

Bailey scowled, her thumb inching toward Send.

“I promise,” he repeated. “I’m just supposed to give you this, okay? It’s from him.” He held out a small USB drive with a bottle opener on one end (
because of course
, Bailey thought). “I just found it this afternoon. I hope it’s not too late.”

Bailey hesitated. Maybe it
was
too late. She was about to launch a one-girl assault on a swanky but doomed Halloween party with no plan and even less of a costume.

“Come on, take it. It’s cold, okay?”

She wanted to refuse—what if this was some kind of trap set by Garrett?—but then she saw a piece of masking tape affixed to the side. On it was a single word written in Vincent’s jagged script:
KIDDO
.

She took it.

“Thanks,” Gavin said. “You have a good night now.”

“Yeah,” Bailey said. “Happy Halloween.”

Gavin just shook his head.

Bailey tore back to her room. In her eagerness she plugged in the drive three times before it finally synced to her laptop. A single file was waiting for her—a video labeled “Bailey.”

She clicked on it and a window opened to a still image of Vincent staring sightlessly just off camera. The background wasn’t his office; it was a blood-red wall with black candle sconces drilled into it. The white candles behind him were unlit, but she imagined the place would be ideal for something like a séance. She wondered: was she glimpsing Vincent’s apartment?