“How long have you been researching it?” I ask.
He’s really angry now. “Seven years.”
In the front seat Philip snorts.
“So you started before Zacharov got the diamond?”
“I’m the one who told him about it.” Barron’s expression is firm, certain, but I think I can see the fear in his face. He’s lying, but he will never admit he’s lying. There is no evidence in the world that will make him back off a claim once he’s made it. If he did, he would have to admit how much of his memory is already gone.
Philip and Anton snicker to each other. They know he’s lying too. It’s like going to the movies with them in the summers when we all stayed in Carney with our grandparents. The familiarity makes me relax despite myself.
“So I actually agreed to do this?” I say.
They laugh more.
I have to proceed very carefully. “If the Resurrection Diamond is supposed to prevent assassination, are you sure I’m going to be able to get around it?”
It seems to be within the bounds of believable ignorance or hesitation. Anton grins at me in the rearview mirror. “You’re not doing death work. Whatever that stone is, it won’t stop your kind of magic.”
My kind of magic.
Heart to stone.
Me? I’m the transformation worker?
Who cursed you? I asked the cat in my dream.
You did.
I think that I’m going to be sick. No, I’m really going to be sick. I press my eyes shut, turn my head against the cold window, and concentrate on holding down my gorge.
He’s lying. He’s got to be lying.
“I’m—,” I start.
I’m a worker. I’m a worker. I’m a worker.
The thought repeats in my head like one of those tiny ricocheting rubber balls that just won’t stop banging into everything. I can’t think past it.
I thought I’d give anything to be a worker, but somehow this feels like a hideous violation of my childhood fantasy.
What’s the point of pretending to be anything less than the most talented practitioner of the very rarest curses? Except, I guess I’m not pretending anymore.
“You okay over there?” Barron asks.
“Sure,” I say slowly. “I’m fine. Just tired. It’s really late. And my head is killing me.”
“We’ll stop for coffee,” says Anton.
We do. I manage to spill half of mine down my shirt, and the burn of the scalding liquid is the first thing that makes me feel halfway normal.
The entrance to the restaurant—Koshchey’s—is so ornate that it looks like something out of another time. The front door is a brass so bright it looks like gold. Stone fire birds flank it, their feathers painted pale blue, orange, and red.
“Oh, tasteful,” Barron says.
“Hey,” says Anton, “it belongs to the family. Respect.”
Barron shrugs. Philip shakes his head.
The sidewalk outside has the kind of stillness that comes only very early in the morning, and in that stillness I think the restaurant looks oddly majestic. Maybe I have bad taste.
Anton twists a key in the lock and opens the door. We walk into the dark room.
“You sure no one’s here?” Philip asks.
“It’s the middle of the night,” says Anton. “Who’s going to be here? This key wasn’t easy to come by.”
“Okay,” Barron says, “so this place is going to be full of tables and political people. Rich bored folks that don’t mind kicking it with gangsters. Maybe some workers from the Volpe and Nonomura families—we’re currently allying ourselves with them.” He walks across the room to point to a spot underneath a massive chandelier hung with a few huge blue crystals among the clear ones. It glitters, even in the dim light. “There will be a podium and loud, boring speeches.”
I look around. “What is this?”
“Fund-raiser for ‘Vote No on Proposition Two.’ Zacharov is hosting it.” Barron looks at me strangely. I wonder if I was supposed to know that.
“And I’m going to just walk up to him?” I ask. “In front of everyone?”
“Chill,” Philip says. “For the millionth time, we’ve got a plan. We’ve been waiting too long for this to be idiots, okay?”
“My uncle has some very specific habits,” says Anton. “He’s not going to have his bodyguards close to him, because he can’t have his society folks or the other families thinking he’s afraid. So instead of guards he gets high-up laborers to take turns as his entourage. Philip and I are scheduled to be up his ass for two hours, starting at ten thirty.”
I nod my head, but my gaze strays to the walls, to oil paintings of houses with chicken legs scampering beside women riding cauldrons through the skies, all reflected in massive mirrors. All our movements shimmer in them too, so that I keep thinking I see someone else moving when it’s only myself.
“Your job is to keep an eye on us after that and wait for Zacharov to head to the bathroom. He wants it cleared when he uses it, so we’ll be alone. That’s where you’re going to give him the touch.”
“Where is it?” I ask.
“There are two men’s bathrooms,” Anton says, pointing. “One has a window. He’ll pick the other one. I’ll show it to you.”
Barron and Philip head toward a glossy black door stenciled in gold with the image of a man on horseback. I follow.
“We go in with Zacharov,” Philip says. “You wait a few minutes and then go in yourself.”
“I won’t be in the room,” Barron says. “I’ll be outside—with you—to make sure everything goes smoothly.”
I push the door and walk into a large bathroom. A mural of tiles takes up the whole far wall, an enormous bird of red and orange and gold flies in front of a tree covered in what look like cabbages but I assume are just really stylized leaves. The hand dryer is attached to that wall, but someone has painted it almost the same gold as the tiles. Stalls are along one side, urinals on the other, and a stretch of marble countertop filled with shining brass sinks.
“I’ll play Zacharov,” Anton says, and goes to stand at the sink. Then he looks at me, and I think he realizes he’s about to be mock-assassinated. “No, wait. I’ll play me. Barron, you be my uncle.” They change places.
“Okay, go ahead,” Anton says to me.“What do I say?” I ask.
“Pretend you’re drunk,” says Barron. “Too drunk to notice you’re not supposed to be there.”
I stagger from near the doorway up to Barron.
“Get him out of here,” Barron says in a fake accent that I think is supposed to be Russian.
I extend my gloved hand and try to slur my voice. “It’s a real honor, sir.”
Barron just looks at me. “I don’t know if he’d shake.”
“Sure he will,” says Anton. “Philip here will say that Cassel’s his little brother. Try again, Cassel.”
“Sir, it’s a real honor to be here. I really appreciate the way that you’re doing your part to make workers safe so that we can exploit all the little people.” I hold out my hand again.
“Stop being a comedian,” Philip says, but not like he really means it. “Concentrate on the money and how you’re going to get your fingers on his skin.”
“I’m going to shove my hand under the cuff of his sleeve. Precut a hole in my glove. I just need my longest finger to touch skin.”
Barron laughs. “Mom’s old trick. The way she did that guy at the racetrack. You remembered.”
I bite back a comment about remembering and just nod, looking down.
“Go ahead,” Anton says. “Show me.”
I extend my right hand, and when Barron takes it, I wrap my left hand around his wrist and shake. The left hand holds Barron’s arm in place so that even if he struggles it’ll take him a moment to get away. Anton’s eyes widen a little. He’s afraid. I can read his tells.
And just like that I’m sure he hates me. Hates being afraid and hates me for making him feel that way.
“A real honor, sir,” I say.
Anton nods. “So, then you turn his heart to stone. That should look like—”
“Very poetic,” I say.
“What?
“Very poetic, turning his heart to stone. Was that your idea?”
“It’ll look like a heart attack—at least until the autopsy,” Anton says, ignoring my question. “And that’s what we’re going to let them think it was. You’re going to ride out the blowback in here, and then we’re going to call for a doctor.”
“You didn’t seem drunk enough,” says Barron.
“I’ll seem drunker,” I say.
Barron’s looking at himself in the mirror. He smoothes out one of his eyebrows, then turns his head to admire his profile. His shave is so close that it might have come from a straight razor. Handsome. A real snake-oil salesman. “You should throw up.”
“What? You want me to stick my finger down my throat?”
“Why not?
“Why?” I lean against the wall, studying Philip and Barron. Their faces are the two I know best in all the world, and right now they’re unguarded. Philip shifts back and forth, grim-faced. He crosses and uncrosses his arms over his chest. He’s a loyal laborer and he’s got to be a little uncomfortable at the idea of taking out the head of the family, even if it means becoming rich and powerful overnight. Even if it means putting his childhood friend in charge and making himself indispensable.
Barron, however, appears to be having fun. I don’t know what he’s getting out of this, except that he loves to be in control. And it’s obvious that he’s managed to make Anton and Philip need him. He might be burning through his own memories to do it, but he’s got power over all of us.
Of course, maybe he’s in it for the money too. We’re talking about a lot of money, being the head of a crime family.
“Afraid you won’t be able to do it?” Barron asks, and I remember we’re talking about vomiting. “But think—the hardest thing is getting in the door. This way you can burst in the door with your hand over your mouth, push into the stall, close it behind you, and toss your cookies. He’ll be laughing at you when you come out. Easy mark.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Philip says, nodding.
“I’ve never made myself throw up before,” I say. “I have no idea how long it will take.”
“How about this,” says Barron. “Go in the kitchen. Hurl in a bowl. We’ll bottle up the puke and tape it behind the toilet in the first stall. If someone finds it, then you’re on your own, but otherwise you can take whatever time you need now and not worry about it then.”
“That’s disgusting,” I say.
“Just do it,” says Anton.
“No,” I say. “I can act drunk off my ass. I can pull it off.” I don’t intend to pull any of this off on Wednesday, although I don’t quite know what I am going to do instead. But I can scheme in the morning; right now I need to observe.
“Throw up, or I am going to make you wish you did,” Anton says.
I turn my neck to the side, so he can see the length of unmarked skin. “No scars,” I say. “I’m not in your family, and you’re not my boss.”
“You better believe I’m your boss,” Anton says, walking up to me and grabbing the collar of my shirt, stretching it toward him.
“Enough.” Philip gets between us, and Anton lets go of me. “You, get in the kitchen and stick your finger down your throat,” he says to me. “Don’t be so squeamish.” He turns to Anton. “Lay off my brother. We’re putting enough pressure on him.”
It doesn’t escape my notice that as Anton turns away and punches the door of a stall, Barron is smirking.
The more we fight, the more Barron is in control.
I push past Anton and keep going on through the big double doors to where I figure the kitchen is, pitch black and filled with the smells of paprika and cinnamon.
I reach around on the wall and flip the switch. Battered stainless and copper pots reflect the fluorescent lights. I could keep going out the back door, but there’s no point. I need them to keep thinking that I’m clueless. I don’t need them chasing me through the streets and then searching me until they find the amulets in my leg, even if staying here means the degrading and unpleasant duty of puking into a bowl. I open one of the industrial refrigerators and drink a few swallows of milk out of the carton. I hope it will coat my stomach.
The liners of my gloves are damp with sweat when I strip them off. My hands look pale in the lights.
I think of the hydrogen peroxide I fed to Grandad and wonder if this is some kind of karmic punishment. I put my finger on my tongue, testing how awful it’s going to be. My skin takes like salt.
“Hey,” someone says.
When I turn, I see that it isn’t Anton or Philip or Barron. It’s a guy I don’t know with a long coat and a gun pointed right at me.
The milk slides out of my hands and falls to the floor, splashing out of the carton.
“What are you doing here?” the man says.
“Oh,” I say, thinking fast. “My friend has a key. He works for one of the owners.”
“Are you talking to someone?” comes a voice from the back, and another man with a shaved head walks into the room. His T-shirt has a deep V, revealing his necklace of scars. He looks over at me. “Who’s that?”