Page 65 of When the Sky Breaks

“No one else reacted,” Ansel clarified.

“That’s definitely worse,” Sorcha muttered.

“Come on, you two,” Ansel said. “Up. Now.”

“What? In the middle of the night?” I asked.

“The city doesn’t seem to acknowledge night and day,” Ansel said, “so might as well make some progress. You two gonna get back to sleep after that?”

“But she needs to sleep,” I mumbled. Ansel glared and I didn’t argue further.

“What’s going on here, Ansel?” Sorcha asked as she dressed.

“That’s what we need to find out,” Ansel replied, voice low, dangerous, professional.

And in an instant I felt it. It was still Ansel. Certainly. But this wasn’t the man who’d awkwardly shopped for a maternity corset in Austin, who’d joked with the old soldiers at a guard post in the Texas desert, who sent letters to an Ironmoot friend after they’d hunted a bigfoot together.

This wasn’t Ansel our friend and mentor.

This was Ansel O’Faelan, the Martial Envoy of the Outer Court. Ansel O’Faelan who’d killed a man with his bare hands on a steamship in the middle of the Gulf not a week before.

It was like a switch had been connected. And it was utterly terrifying.

There were patrons in the lobby, some sipping drinks, others reading the paper. The bellhop with the occult amulet still pushed carts of luggage up to rooms. But the sky outside was dark.

I checked my watch—two fourteen. I tapped the case, shook it.

“Is it broken?” Sorcha asked, something almost like hope in her voice.

“No,” Ansel replied, tone still dark, steely, unyielding. “Come on. Outside. We’ve got work to do.”

I shot Sorcha a brief glance and she nodded up at me. Clearly she’d caught the stark change in Ansel’s demeanor as well. I squeezed her hand in reassurance, then nodded toward Ansel and followed after.

Fog hung in the streets, curling in the gutters and along the sidewalks. There were people out—too many people for this time of night. A young boy shined shoes, working silently but smilingly, eyes glazed. An older woman stood outside a bakery shop, writing mechanically on a chalkboard sign. Two young women strolled, arm in arm, afternoon dresses damp in the midnight mist, giggling about something. A porter unloaded cases from a truck. Then stopped when it was empty, turned around, and loaded them back on again.

“This is wrong,” Sorcha whispered, gripping my hand like a vise.

Ansel was three steps ahead of us. Eyes scanning the city like a bird of prey. The mist thickened as we walked, forming swirling eddies even though the air was dead still. It clung to objects, tracing outlines of people, animals, buildings.

And it smelled.

Under the normal scents of a city—animals, gas lamps, bread, damp wood, and liquor—there was something else. Something rancid—like meat left out in the heat too long. I felt Sorcha suppress a gag. I grabbed a handkerchief from my pocket and pressed it over her face.

A glow of candlelight, stronger than from any of the other shops, emerged from the swirling mists ahead. La Coeur Noir the sign read. It was a massive building, black wrought-iron decoration clinging to every available surface, the stone behind painted a startling shade of magenta pink. Music filtered through the windows. And inside was packed with patrons.

It felt off, more so even than the rest of the godforsaken city. Wrong.

And Ansel was already heading inside.

He hadn’t said a word since we left the hotel. All business. All cunning.

The mists swirled faster now, with more deliberateness, clustering around us, seeming to herd us into the club. The smell had worsened.

I stopped, took Sorcha by the shoulders, and made her look at me.

“Eyes here,” I said as she glanced after Ansel. Her gaze snapped to me instantly—green eyes wide, focused, but clearly afraid.

“Listen,” I said, voice dropping as I gripped her upper arms—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make a point, “I do not know what the hell is going on in there. But it’s all kinds of wrong. So when we go in there you do not leave my side? Understand?”