The Fatal Flame by Lyndsay Faye Read Free Book Online

right lay to make, to be sure. How could a green girl from a green island understand our blackest speech? And so he was talking plain English. As I’d not heard him do since . . . I could scarce remember.
    “What’s yer part in this?” the girl demanded. “Boss o’ the place, are ye? Or just a
patron
?”
    “I’m another star police, same as these.” Val waved the cigar in a cordial arc. In every direction save McGlynn’s, whom we’d trapped in the corner when we crowded the entryway. “This is my brother here, the small one. Ever seen a family work that way? All the height, brains, and good looks to one brother?”
    “Don’t forget vices,” I couldn’t help but retort.
    But he had the girls, if not remotely in the palm of his broad hand, at least listening. Part of his appeal to them was the charm he can gush as if he’s a Croton pump fitted for the purpose. But the rest was simpler far—he was the only man in the room not exuding a rank musk of dread. Deliberately, I lowered my shoulders. One or two faces at the other end of the room, meanwhile, almost smiled at the thought of their siblings.
    “I’d still appreciate knowing what you plan, miss.” Valentine blew a fat smoke ring as if reclining on a veranda.
    “Gettin’ out o’ this den of whores and pimps alive,” she snarled. “What else?”
    “A very fine goal, and may I—” Kildare began before his speech was stopped by the pressure of an exceedingly sharp spoon.
    The other copper stars froze, statuelike. All save my brother, who leaned against the left side of the doorframe with his arms crossed.
    “Do you want to
kill
that man, though?” he insisted. “It would be messy for everyone, all that mopping up blood and filling out paperwork, and you’d be a murderess, you see, and we’d be forced to lock you up. Not that Kildare here is so very inspiring. He isn’t. I hardly need to tell you that—you’re the one netted him like a butterfly. It’s just the principle of the thing. Anyhow, I’ve a suggestion. You can take it or leave it, but hear me out?”
    By then I was on a kinchin’s merry-go-round, reeling inwardly. Not having heard Val speak actual English since, say, around 1830. It was like watching him whisk his own face off to reveal a second one, but one I recognized from childhood.
    “D’ye need my permission t’ speak, or shall we mill about till yer ready?” Kildare’s captor returned.
    Two of the girls giggled, several smiled. Valentine dropped his head backward and laughed, flinching as if he’d a cracked rib.
    “Right, yes,” he agreed. “I’m going to offer you a trade. I will remove any man you please from the present situation. Take your pick. One of us I eliminate for you as a gesture of good faith.”
    “And then?” she prompted defiantly.
    “And then you march Kildare here or whomever else you like downstairs at the end of your blade, me if you fancy, and when you breathe the fresh air, you let the poor bastard go. You’ve won, you see. This is me negotiating the terms of our defeat. I like my plan better than your plan, and I figure you do too. So I’ll just wait until you’ve picked a fellow, and then I’ll get rid of him.”
    Piest stared at Valentine with eyes wide as chowder bowls. Kildare appeared, as was only to be expected, less than pleased with this lay. Connell glanced heavenward as if praying for it to work without killing anyone.
    I searched my brother for a signal. None seemed remotely apparent.
    Valentine returned to smoking, pointedly not looking at anyone, leaving the girl to her choice uninterrupted. Then, quite by accident, he studied the gritty floor beneath the doorframe, and his boyish, careworn face turned hard as exposed bone. I followed his gaze and saw along the cheap pine a pattern of nail gouges from previous attempted escapes. Just as a frothy tide of rage washed over me, Val snapped back into focus.
    “Well?” he asked in a friendly tone. “Any ideas?”
    She’d