The Heartless City Read online

  Elliot raised the flask to his lips, this time in an effort to dull his own internal pain, but before he could take a drink, it was snatched from between his fingers.

  “Started the party without me, I see.”

  Cambrian rounded the table and rested his hand against the back of a chair, placing the rim of the flask beneath his nose and taking a sniff.

  “Gin?” he exclaimed in mock horror, sliding down beside Elliot and placing his hat on the table. “Gin is not a gentlemen’s drink,” he scolded, taking a sip, but as soon as the liquor passed his lips, he coughed. “Good Lord, that’s vile.”

  He laughed and wiped his watering eyes, and Elliot forced a weak, reciprocal smile he hoped was convincing. Two weeks ago, he would have bought Cam’s spirited, carefree act, but now he could taste the cold, metallic bite of his anxiety, could feel the wary relief that flooded his heart in his own chest. Some people were better at concealing their feelings than others, and Elliot had learned Cam wasn’t good.

  He was one of the best.

  “I tell you, El.” He coughed again, screwing the cap back on. “Keep drinking swill like this, and you’ll end up in an opium den.”

  It was a joke; there were no longer opium dens in London. Perhaps the only positive effect of the quarantine was that it had cut off trade and severed access to the drug. Once a month, the Empire sent in supplies to sustain the city: coal, grains, wine, tea and other essential provisions. But other than that, no person or substance could cross the fortified border. The shipments were brought in by boat at a different hour and dock each time, with armed guards protecting the goods and preventing desperate Londoners from trying to board the ship.

  That was where Cam had been before he’d come to the music hall―overseeing and organizing the imports with his father. The Lord Mayor controlled what came in and how it was distributed, but while opium had been eradicated, the Hyde drug had not, which meant―unlike the narcotic―its ingredients were local. For a reason Elliot couldn’t fathom, people were apparently still making and taking the substance. According to speeches Cam’s father had given at meetings and in the papers, the persistent scourge was due to the sinful weak-mindedness of the poor. Elliot had believed this explanation in the past, but since his affliction, he hadn’t found the working class to be any more unsound or depraved than the rest.

  “If gin is beneath you,” he said to Cam, maintaining his smile as best he could and seizing the flask from his hand. “You don’t have to drink it.”

  “True,” Cam replied, leaning back and sliding a silver cigarette case from the pocket of his coat. “But what sort of friend would I be if I stood idly by and watched you indulge in such a filthy habit?” He grinned widely and placed a cigarette between his lips. His teeth were white and very likely the straightest in all of London, but Elliot wasn’t blinded by the brilliance of his smile. Beneath the smirk was a real concern for how much he’d been drinking.

  “You’re one to talk of filthy habits,” he said, raising an eyebrow and nodding toward the silver case.

  Cam sighed and struck a match against the side of his shoe. “Really, El,” he mumbled against the cigarette as he lit it. “You’re such an old lady sometimes.”

  A warm, genuine smile slowly crept across Elliot’s face. The familiar banter was comforting, and Cam was calming down, too. At moments like this, it almost seemed safe to finally share his secret, but if he did, he’d never have such moments with Cam again. Over the past two weeks, he’d been an unintentional voyeur, feeling his friend’s most intimate, hidden emotions without his knowledge. How betrayed would he feel if he discovered what Elliot knew? Especially the feelings where his father was concerned.

  Elliot had hated Cam’s father since they were little boys. His own father was cold and distant―especially since his mother’s death―but the Lord Mayor was more than hard and removed; he was cruel. Cam had never known his mother, who died in childbirth, so when a Hyde killed Elliot’s mother when he was twelve and Cam was thirteen, Cam grieved for her like a son. Elliot’s father shut him out, unable to face his tears, but the Lord Mayor beat Cam for crying like a child, dislocating his jaw and even fracturing his arm.

  Still, even while Elliot’s father was setting the broken bone, Cam laughed and joked about plans to convince the staff he’d been mugged. Elliot had believed his laughter then and for years to come, fully convinced his father’s malice had no effect on him. Cam mocked the Lord Mayor when he wasn’t around, defied him at every turn, and insisted he was immune to his constant and brutal disapproval.

  Now, Elliot knew the truth he’d tried to hide―Cam feared his father more than anything else in the world, feared him in an acute and primal way that stilled the blood. His terror went beyond the simple threat of physical violence. It was a deeper, more constant fear that infected the core of the soul, paired with a strange disgust that Elliot didn’t understand.

  As if to a certain degree, he felt he deserved to be afraid.

  Mingled with the dread was also a longing for his father’s love, a feeling Elliot knew too well, and it made the fear he carried even more tragic and hard to bear.

  “Look at those girls.” Cam sighed, blowing smoke out over the stage. The dancers had turned their backs and were shaking their rumps to the rhythm of the song.

  Get away, Johnnie, I’m sure there’s someone by,

  Get away, Johnnie, to kiss me don’t you try.

  Get away you naughty man, or I shall kick and strike,

  Well get away a little closer if you like.

  “Most of them would have been ballerinas if they’d been born somewhere else,” he continued, flicking ash into the lotus-shaped ashtray on the table. “And this ridiculous song was written at least five years ago.” A sudden cloud of sadness bloomed and billowed through the air, as tangible as the smoke that coiled around his statuesque face. “Beyond this city, there are new songs, new ideas, new everything…”

  But he didn’t finish. He simply stared at the girls with sad, glazed eyes, so Elliot took advantage of his distraction and finished the gin. A soft, warm buzz had started to hum in the back of his brain, but it wasn’t enough to dull the hunger he felt from the waitresses’ table. Their attention had turned to Cam, as he had known it eventually would, and now they were yearning for much more than riches and protection. Shifting in his chair, he struggled to loosen his dampening collar, trying to think of a way to suggest more to drink without seeming desperate.

  Thankfully, Cam soon arrived at the same idea. “What are we doing?” he scolded himself, rising up out of his chair and then leaning out over the rail of the box. “Eddie!” he called down to one of the managers on the floor. “My friend and I would like some champagne brought up. We’re celebrating!”

  Elliot ran a hand through his hair, relieved. “Celebrating?”

  “It’s Import Night,” he exclaimed, sliding back down into his chair. “The best night of the month.”

  “Oh, right, I forgot. You expecting anything good?”

  One of the most audacious ways in which Cam defied his father had to do with the monthly imports sent into the city. The Lord Mayor made all the requests and supervised each shipment, but Cam had struck a deal with one of the sailors on the ship, and every month he smuggled in different items at Cam’s request―modern books, art, inventions, and other advancements the Lord Mayor declared to be frivolous. On Import Night, while Cam and his father inspected the provisions, the sailor took Cam’s treasures to an old, abandoned ferry, retrieving the money he’d left there and depositing the goods. Later that night―when the Empire’s ships and guards had all departed―Cam rowed out to the boat and recovered his hidden contraband.

  “He always leaves a surprise or two, but I’m hoping he brought those new, twelve-inch records he told me about. Did I mention they can play for over four consecutive minutes?”

  He had, many times. “Yes, but isn’t that Victor Talking Machine he got you broken?”

  “Andrew th
inks he can probably have it fixed in a couple of days.”

  Elliot lowered his gaze to his lap and hoped Cam didn’t notice. Andrew Heron was his and Cam’s age, and when his father was hired to be the Lord Mayor’s personal―and the city’s only―telegraph operator, the three of them became friends. Elliot liked everything about Andrew, from his soft laugh to his sharp mind to his feathery ginger hair, but lately, he’d avoided him as much as he possibly could. The task was nearly impossible though; Andrew was at the palace so often he practically lived there, too. Before, he’d been his father’s assistant, but now he’d taken his place. Because his father was dead.

  And it was Elliot’s fault.

  “The Lord Mayor will probably keep him busy until ten o’clock,” Cam said, theatrically accentuating his father’s title like always. “He’ll meet us out at the ferry after, probably around midnight.”

  Elliot glanced at his lap again, and this time Cam took notice. He paused, took a final drag, and snuffed out his cigarette. “You are coming with us?” he asked, slowly exhaling the smoke and glancing indifferently toward the stage, but Elliot felt the concern creeping back into his chest.

  “I don’t know,” he replied, though he had already made his decision. Andrew’s fresh grief was like a knife in his own heart, and he didn’t deserve the grace and forgiveness that shone in his soft, brown eyes.

  Cam sighed and turned toward him, his own eyes suddenly warm and void of all jokes and pretenses. “Listen, El, there’s no need to keep avoiding Andrew.”

  Elliot swallowed and stared at the scuffed-up floorboards beneath his feet.

  “He doesn’t blame you,” Cam continued. “Nobody does. You’ve got to stop hiding yourself away.”

  He opened his mouth to say more but then a waitress approached their table.

  “A bottle of champagne,” she said, setting two flutes before them and popping the cork with a practiced hand. She poured the golden, fizzing liquid into their glasses, but Elliot was no longer aware of the drinks.

  His world had stopped.

  For fourteen interminable days, he’d felt nearly every emotion on the human spectrum, but never once had he encountered anything like this girl. Her feelings were like a bomb that had obliterated his senses; he could scarcely see her face through the dense and astonishing haze of her spirit. Everyone, especially women, lived in a cloud of crippling fear and gnawing incompleteness, but wholeness radiated from her being like rays of the sun. She carried a touch of longing and a hint of indignation, but neither emotion could dampen the fiery strength that pulsed at her core, the unapologetic pride and confidence she possessed. What stood out the most, however, was the feeling she was missing.

  In a city rife with terror, she was absolutely fearless.

  For a moment, the only word his brain could form was “beautiful.” There was no other way to describe the impression her spirit made.

  When he finally blinked away the shock, he saw her physical presence was as stunning as the rest. Her hair was a billowing mane of thick and tightly wound charcoal curls, held back from her lovely face by a ribbon that matched her dress. She was small with delicate features but also strong and extremely poised, as if she believed she were ten feet tall instead of five and half. Most arresting, however, were her gold-ringed amber eyes, which glowed like embers beneath two fans of silken, coal-black lashes.

  “Can I… get you anything else, sir?”

  To his horror, Elliot suddenly realized he was staring. “I… no, I mean… thank you.” He bit his cheek, appalled by how slow and ridiculous he sounded. For the first time in two weeks, he wished his mind was clear and sober.

  “Good Lord,” Cam murmured.

  Elliot turned to see that he was staring at her as well.

  A surge of excitement had shot through his veins, and for a moment, Elliot found himself absurdly jealous.

  When Cam spoke again, however, he understood why she’d caught his attention. “You’re American,” he said, his eyes wide with awe.

  Elliot had been too stunned to notice it at first, but Cam was right―the girl spoke with a clear American accent. There were foreigners in the city at the time of the quarantine, of course, but meeting someone who wasn’t London-born was very rare. The only other American he’d ever come across was a woman who’d been friends with his mother when he was a very young child.

  “Forgive me,” Cam added hurriedly, struggling to remember his manners amid such fierce excitement. “I suppose you hear that from customers often.”

  The girl quirked her lovely lips into a bitter smile, and the indignation Elliot sensed before began to swell. “Almost never, actually,” she said, boldly meeting his gaze. “Few of them are aware of what I say, let alone how I say it.”

  “So much the loss for them,” Cam replied, widening his grin, and Elliot felt another preposterous surge of jealousy.

  The girl, however, seemed quite unmoved. “Well, I’ll be returning shortly if you two need anything else.”

  “No, wait―stay!” Elliot cried before he could think. The girl’s eyes widened as she turned in his direction, and his face burst into flames.

  “Yes, please. Stay,” Cam said, rising from the table and gracefully pulling out a chair. “We’d very much enjoy hearing about America.”

  The girl hesitated. “I’m not supposed to sit. I’m working.”

  Cam glanced over her shoulder. Eddie, the manager, was now approaching the top of the stairs, gruffly informing the waitresses at the table their break was over. “Eddie!” he called, and the man’s head snapped in his direction. “Would you mind if this young lady sat and talked with us for a bit?”

  “Not at all, sir,” he replied. “Iris, sit with the gentlemen.”

  “But Mr. Dorset,” the girl―Iris―protested. “I have other tables. I’ll lose money if I―”

  His eyes flashed as he crossed the room and angrily lowered his voice. “That gentleman there is Cambrian Branch, the son of the Lord Mayor. If he asks you to sit with him, by God, you are going to sit.”

  He gave her another hard look before he walked away, shooing the other waitresses before him down the stairs. After a moment, Iris turned around and looked at Cam, and once again, Elliot felt the world grind to a halt. Her eyes were calm, her smile placid, her cheeks void of color, but flowing from her heart was the purest rage he’d ever known.

  lliot doubled over, straining his muscles and clutching the sides of his chair. Iris’s wrath was murderous, dense, and completely overwhelming; he could hardly contain the raging fire that now consumed his blood. How could there not be a flush in her cheeks or quickness in her breath?

  “El, are you all right?” Cam asked as Iris slid calmly and smoothly into the chair he had pulled out.

  “Yes,” he said with a cough, clenching his fists and bringing them up to his knees. “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure―”

  “I’m sure. I think it’s just a stomach cramp or something.”

  Cam looked wary but let it go and returned to his own chair. “Thank you so much for indulging us,” he said, turning to Iris. “I’ll gladly compensate you for any tips you might be losing.”

  “There’s no need, really,” she said, her tone as smooth as glass.

  “I must insist. You’re sacrificing your money and your time. It means a great deal to me, and I am truly in your debt.”

  She blinked, momentarily betraying her surprise. The puzzlement she felt, however, did not abate her rage, which apparently stemmed from something other than losing her hard-earned wages. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

  “It’s you who is doing me the kindness,” he said, his eyes alight. “I’d wanted to introduce myself, but as your manager already said, my name is Cambrian Branch.”

  Her anger flared, and Elliot tightened his fists.

  “Pleased to meet you, Lord Branch.”

  Cam shook his head. “No, please. Call me Cambrian.” Her mouth dropped open a little, and he rushed to ex
plain himself. “I don’t mean to be forward. It’s just that I find those rules to be unreasonable and old-fashioned. I’ll address you however you like, of course, but please don’t call me Lord Branch.”

  Her bewilderment rose again, and this time it did ease a bit of her rage.

  “All right,” she said slowly, “Cambrian. You can call me Iris.”

  “What’s your real name, though? Not the one from La Maison Des Fleurs.”

  “That is my real name: Iris Faye.” Her smile curled as she added, “I suppose I was simply born to be a waitress in this hall.”

  Cam―unaccustomed to sarcasm not his own―cleared his throat. “Um, this is my friend, Elliot Morrissey. You can call him by his Christian name as well. Right, Elliot?”

  Elliot nodded, afraid of the emotion his voice might convey. Her rage had not only flared again, it had sharpened to a point.

  “Are you the son of Dr. Morrissey?” she asked, turning toward him.

  Swallowing hard, he glanced away and murmured a quiet “yes.” He’d never been so uncomfortable or ashamed in his whole life. What must this beautiful, strong, mysterious girl think of him? He was sweating, half-drunk, inarticulate, and drowning not only in her emotions but also in his own.

  “How do you know Dr. Morrissey?” Cam asked, knitting his brow.

  A flicker of panic shot through Iris like lightening and then was gone, as if her heart had leapt and then immediately steadied. “Everyone knows who he is. He’s the most prominent doctor in London.”

  “Oh, right. I suppose he is. Well, why don’t you tell us about yourself? Where in the States are you from?”

  She smoothed her dress and tucked a charcoal curl behind her ear. “I’m from Kansas. If you don’t know where that is, it’s―”

  “Right in the middle,” Cam said, beaming. “I’ve studied world maps. Were you born in the country then? On a farm?”

  His enthusiasm was so pure it must have been disarming, because her raging fire simmered down to a steady glow, and Elliot let out a breath and rested his hands against his thighs.

  “As a matter of fact, I was,” she replied. “Born on a farm, I mean.”