Fear Her Wrath II: Crucible of Glass

Chapter 31

It was still early when I ducked behind a dumpster about a block from the Midnight Rider to change into my costume. Well, early by mobster standards. It just meant that the Midnight Rider would be mostly empty—probably no freaks, and hopefully no one who was that good a shot. The new armor Emery had made for me felt sturdy, but without compromising my freedom of movement. It was exactly what she'd promised. Since becoming my new armorer, she had also already upgraded my mask, fixed my electro-staff so it wouldn't snap, and made my gas pellets disperse their payload even more rapidly. Now I just needed to put my complete arsenal of armor and gadgets to the test, and pretend like reckless self-endangerment was a valid way of dealing with my emotions.

"So... who was the boy?" said the voice in my ear as I finished lacing my boots.

"Crap," I groaned. "So you've already seen it?"

"Me and about 500 other people," said Ellie. "Do you, uh... want it mysteriously taken down? Like 'Oops, copyrighted music in the background. Violates our terms of service.' I can make it happen."

"No," I said bitterly. "It wouldn't make a difference. How are things outside the Midnight Rider?"

I wasn't about to admit it, but I felt like I deserved a little public shaming for giving Gennifer a black eye—not to mention rebounding with a complete stranger. Besides, I was getting used to being hated—in a selfish, self-pitying sort of way. I heard the clacking of Ellie's keyboard as she tabbed through the various cameras pointed at the entrance of the nightclub.

"Quiet," said Ellie. "Just the one bouncer—bald guy with thick shoulders. Looks like he barely made it outta 5th grade."

"Same guy as last time," I said. "This shouldn't be too hard."

I unfolded my staff with a snap and tested the electrodes. Those gangsters were in for a world of pain.

"Uh, Maggs," said Ellie hesitantly. "Y'know I can't, like, call the police if things go south in there, right?"

"I know," I said, althought I wasn't really thinking about it. "Uh, usual disclaimer to my dad."

I pressed the button on my mask that turned on my voice distorter. This was my last chance to change my mind and go home instead of marching into the Midnight Rider like I had a death wish. I didn't change my mind, of course. That would have involved me actually making a good decision, and I wasn't in the mood for good decisions. I wanted to hurt someone. So, I crept out of the alley, knocked out the bouncer from behind with my staff, and kicked open the doors of the Midnight Rider.

The band stuttered to a halt in the middle of a very indifferent performance of "Blue Devil Blues" as the mobsters turned to gape at the unexpected intruder. The bouncer on the inside of the door reached for his gun, but I took him down with a few well-placed strikes from my electro-staff and hurled him down the steps that led down to the tables closest to the stage. I quickly scanned the room to make sure I hadn't made a terrible mistake. No freaks. No hardened killers. Mostly low-level guys who looked like they'd just rolled out of bed. I'd gotten lucky. These cowards would be easy to break.

Shoving aside a waitress and smacking a gun from the hands of a young Tassi regime associate with my staff, I strode over to the elevated stage in the middle of the nightclub. The musicians had already scurried off into the shadows, taking their instruments with them. Two enforcers from the Polish mob got up to leave in protest, but I shot them a look as I mounted the stage that made them slowly sit back down. Nobody seemed to know what to do. The sacrosanct nature of the Midnight Rider was so well known that they couldn't even imagine someone violating it so flagrantly. Not even me. It felt good to see the incredulous stares and uncomprehending looks on their dumb faces. It would feel even better to make them squeal.

"Louise and Lillian Caprice used to sing at the Midnight Rider," I said, loud enough so the whole room could hear. "Now they're robbing banks with Glassface. Somebody here knows why. You can tell me about it, or you can pay Dr. Lily to piece you back together after I'm through with you. Let's start with—."

BANG. BANG.

The first bullet missed me by a few inches and lodged itself in the leather upholstery of a booth on the opposite end of the nightclub. The second one got me in the side. My new armor deflected the shot, but it hurt worse than anything I'd ever felt in my life, leaving behind what wasn't so much a bruise as a dark mass of mangled flesh. Throwing myself down on my stomach, I looked in the direction the shots and—my vision blurred by the pain—saw Dalton Reaves. He had been sharing a booth with Phony Charlie Garozzo and Johnny Sabatini—the new arrival from Bancroft—and I somehow hadn't seen him. His mirrored sunglasses glinted like the eyes of a wolf about to devour its prey. Turns out I hadn't gotten lucky.

I'd practically signed my own death warrant.

The next three minutes were utter chaos. More shots were fired—one got me in the leg, the other in the shoulder, and a third cracked the rib I broke during my first fight with Icemane. I swung my staff wildly and threw half of my smoke pellets, but it was hopeless. I took out four or five of them, but it was twenty against one, and soon I was being held down by four mobsters as Dalton Reaves and Johnny Sabatini stood over me.

"Take off her mask," said Dalton.

Anthony "Slim Chance" Caruso, one of Michael Anselmo's men, reached for my face and grabbed my mask from beneath. The surge of electricity that passed through his fingers nearly knocked him out, and the other gangsters rushed to catch him as he fell to the floor.

The electrified mask had been one of Emery's improvements. If I survived this—which didn't seem that likely at this point—I owed her big time.

"Her goddamn face is electrified!" said one of the mobsters.

"Fine," said Dalton. "We'll blow her brains out, then take off the mask. The don won't care either way. Hold her still."

I strained against my captors as Dalton lined up his shot. The pain was so intense I could barely keep from passing out, but I knew if I gave up, I was dead. I shoved my elbow into Phony Charlie and tried to throw myself backwards, but it was pointless. They had me. I had just seconds left to live.

"Ellie," I whispered. "H-help..."

Dalton's Browning pistol was pressed against my forehead. This was it.

"Wait," said a voice I'd never heard before.

Dalton Reaves's finger paused on the trigger. The other mobsters turned to stare at the woman who had just spoken. It was Fritz Marlene—the tall, blonde, and seductively androgynous proprietress of the Midnight Rider.

Like the Caprice Sisters, Fritz Marlene was a retired freak. Before she took over the management of Marbrose City's most notorious nightclub, she's been the Archdyke of the East End—a cabaret singer who dressed like a Prussian Junker and seemed to be living out the Golden Twenties in blissful ignorance that Marbrose City wasn't exactly Weimar Berlin. When she eventually got tired of breaking hearts and cracking bones, Carmine Aurelio offered her his prized nightclub, which she accepted on the condition that she would occasionally break out her old cabaret act. On most nights, though, she was all business—black tailcoat, white gloves, blonde hair slicked back, and lips painted a vibrant red. She still wore a monocle, and carried a riding crop, and she ran her establishment with Prussian efficiency.

If I hadn't been struggling not to faint from the pain, I probably would have realized that she was not the kind of person you wanted to come to your rescue. As it was, I was grateful. I'd just gotten a few more minutes to live.

"So, ze Nighwrath," she said. "How foolish of you to deliver yourself right into our hands."

She spoke in a low, husky, Teutonic lisp that seemed to crawl its way down the back of your neck. Nudging Dalton aside, she placed her riding crop under my chin and raised my head until my neck felt dangerously exposed. For a long time, she just stared at me—like I was a small, pitiful creature that she would spare if she only had the choice. It was all I could do to keep breathing. The dull, burning pain in my chest made it hard to even think.

"Take her to ze back room, Dalton," she said finally. "She can keep her mask for now. And Slim Chance—call Carmine. Tell him I have ze Nightwrath here, and we're going to have a little chat."