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  I tried to twist my wrist from his locked grip, but he held on. Then, before I knew what was happening, Stanley had leaned across the bar and grabbed the Harvard boy by his collar.

  The two other fellas stood so fast that their stools fell to the floor with a resounding bang, and the flimsy wood cracked against the hard surface. Silence swept through the bar, every dull-eyed patron looking up from their drinks. Even my little band stopped playing, David and Marvin lowering the instruments from their parted lips.

  The Blind Dragon was small, as were most speakeasies, room for no more than ten tables, the corner for the band, and the wraparound mahogany bar that could seat about fifteen souls. And it was still early for the night, so it wasn’t packed. But busy enough. One gentleman off in the corner, sipping at his drink, was the only one who hadn’t moved a muscle at the ruckus. He stood out because of his perfectly tailored pinstriped two-button suit and his distinct lack of company. You got plenty of fancy-dressed men at The Blind Dragon, but not usually sitting alone.

  “You want to walk away, ole sport,” the Harvard fella said to Stanley. “It’s just me and the dame talking.”

  “I think you’re hard of hearing, sir. Let go of the lady’s arm,” Stanley rumbled as he hooked a foot under the bar and climbed over.

  The Harvard boy’s eyes widened and his grip on my wrist loosened. I gave one hard yank and stumbled back into the wall of liquor bottles, several of them shaking on the thin wooden shelves. I sent up a silent prayer to the Good Lord to not let any bottles fall. Madame Maldu paid a pretty penny to several bootleggers for the finer stock—they cost more than my life.

  “Now I’ll ask you to leave, sir.” Stanley towered over them, all six foot two of him, broad shoulders and bulging biceps.

  But the boy didn’t budge. He might’ve been surprised at Stanley’s actions at first, but he was quickly building up his courage and indignation.

  Without warning, the boy lunged forward with a right hook, punching Stanley square in the jaw.

  I clapped my hands to my mouth, forgetting about the tray of cocktails and Marv’s bourbon. They fell to the floor in a crash of glass, alcohol, and lemon garnishes. Gasps traveled around the speakeasy as Stanley’s head whipped to the side. But the blow didn’t even make him stagger. In fact, the boy’s knuckles were probably hurt worse.

  Even so, the punch was enough to break the thin cables of Stanley’s restraint. He grabbed the boy by the neck and lifted him off his feet. His eyes grew wide as saucers, his face coloring to a shade of pink as Stanley increased the pressure on his neck.

  “If you won’t go, then I’ll remove you,” Stanley said through gritted teeth.

  Perhaps three drinks ago, the college boys might’ve just walked out and left in peace, but they were drunk. And drunk men liked to fight even if they were up against an ex-army MP who boxed for fun on the weekends.

  The one in the oversize flat cap pivoted and swung a right punch into Stanley’s gut. Our bartender barely blinked and backhanded the boy, just hard enough to make him stagger and trip over the exposed legs of their stools and bang his head against the bar’s edge.

  The third boy let out a roar and rammed himself against Stanley’s stomach. Stan grunted and dropped the boy he’d been holding up by the neck to wrap his beefy arms around the charging boy’s chest. He lifted him up and slammed him on the ground. Meanwhile the first fella, the one who’d started it all, stumbled backward, rubbing his throat, silky strands of hair falling in his face as he pulled out a revolver from his pocket.

  My heart stuttered in time with the panted, agitated breaths of the boy—no, he was no longer a boy. He was a man with a gun. An angry one.

  “You’ll pay for that.” His thumb reached back and pulled on the hammer.

  He was maybe two feet from Stanley. He couldn’t miss at that distance.

  The silver of the small Remington revolver glinted in the dim copper lights of the speakeasy. I imagined the ruby-orange flare from the sparking flint, smoke puffing around the leather grip, as the bullet burst from its chamber in an explosion of gunpowder and found its home in Stanley’s gut.

  I couldn’t let that happen.

  Listen to me, Eris.

  Stanley wouldn’t get shot. I wouldn’t let him.

  Don’t speak, Eris.

  I lunged across the bar just as the man pulled the trigger.

  Don’t. Ever. Speak.

  My scream echoed through the Dragon. “STOP!”

  The next moment, the whole world did just that.

  Chapter Two

  The Agent

  The heated porcelain of the mug warmed my hands. Rather, it was the still-steaming joe inside it that did the trick. Inhaling slowly, I took in the rich scent of the Ethiopian coffee. That smell that clung to coats, soft shirt collars, and the drab office walls of the Bureau of Investigation. I loved that smell—so thick and black you could taste it without the risk of burning your tongue.

  But I didn’t take a sip. I only drank coffee if I needed to, which wasn’t often. Being an insomniac, my brain was just wired that way. Helpful for stakeouts.

  “How is it, Mr. Clemmons?”

  I looked up to see Miss Lowensky watching me with baby-blue eyes and an eager smile, leaning on the edge of her chair. She had rolled away from the desk a bit, freeing her dark mid-calf skirt and stocking legs from their prison. The typewriter in front of her was untouched—and had remained untouched since I walked through the door.

  Lifting the mug in a cheers-like motion, I returned her smile. “Best cup o’ joe in all of DC, ma’am.”

  Miss Lowensky flushed with happiness, her pale cheeks coloring under her cheaters, and she leaned forward a bit more, her blonde bob brushing her jaw. “Well, you just let me know if I can get you anything else.” As she spoke, her voice dropped an octave in an almost purr.

  While most nineteen-year-old men would jump at the chance to neck an older, attractive broad like Miss Lowensky—which was surely what her body language and tone were implying she wanted from me—I knew better.

  You don’t neck your boss’s secretary.

  I’d been going on my own assignments for a year now, and Barbara Lowensky, secretary to Matthew McCarney, head of the BOI’s Specialized Organized Crime Division—SOCD for short—had been making me coffee for only two months. She still had yet to realize that I never drank any of it.

  I raised the mug to my lips and pretended to take a sip of the coffee I hated. It would be too awkward to correct her after all this time. “Thank you, Miss Lowensky.”

  “We’ve known each other long enough. Call me Barb,” she insisted, tucking a tress of gold hair behind her ear and looking up at me from under long, mascara-covered lashes. I tried not to blush like a schoolboy and cleared my throat before replying, “Well, um, Barb, call me Colt.”

  Barb seemed to almost hop in place with excitement. She leaned further over the arm of her chair, scanning me up and down. “I’ve always thought Colt is a swell name. It’s so…strong. You know, like the gun.”

  That seemed to be everyone’s first thought. I preferred to connect my name to its origin, which was the term for a young male horse. But then, maybe my mother had named me after the gun. I’d never known her to ask.

  “Is Mr. McCarney free yet?” I set the mug down on the side table and glanced up at the simple clock hanging on the opposite wall. It was coming close to forty minutes. I’d waited for longer before, but today I was antsy. I’d arrived at the BOI at six o’clock in the morning, a mere thirty minutes after I received the call.

  It was unusual for me, a junior agent, to be called in so early in the morning. I had no idea what to expect once I stepped through McCarney’s door.

  I rubbed my sweating palms on my thighs—blaming them on the steaming mug of joe.

  Barb blinked and looked up at the clock on the wall, as if s
he’d remembered why I was here in the first place.

  “I’m sure it won’t be too much longer. Mr. Sawyer is in there with him. They should be wrapping up their meeting.”

  “Sawyer? As in Jimmy Sawyer?”

  “Yes, that Mr. Sawyer. They’ve been in there since I got here at five thirty.” She leaned further still, this time a conspiratorial lean instead of a flirtatious lean. “Something big happened, Colt. A real sockdollager.”

  “You don’t say.” I edged up in my chair. Maybe Barb could give me a clue as to what to expect. Preparation was the mark of a good agent.

  “Oh, yes. It’s got Mr. McCarney all in a tizzy. Never had so many calls in and out of the switchboards during the night. I don’t know the details, but something has the SOCD by the storm.”

  “Where did it happen?”

  Jimmy Sawyer was a field agent. If he was the one debriefing McCarney, it likely happened outside of Washington.

  “Boston,” Barb said, her voice a hush as a doorknob rattled.

  The office door swung open, revealing the head of the SOCD, Mr. Matthew McCarney, my boss. My legal guardian.

  McCarney wore the same clothes from yesterday. In fact, I doubt he’d even left the office. His gray suit was a little rumpled, and a faded coffee stain peeked out from under his vest. Unlike most modern men, McCarney chose to keep with the three-piece suits and starched collars.

  “Clemmons,” he addressed me wearily, running a hand over his trimmed brown hair peppered with silver. He loosened his tie with two fingers. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Yessir.” I stood and nodded toward Barb. “Thanks for the cup o’ joe.”

  She gave a close-lipped smile, her finger tapping the side of her jaw as she scanned me up and down.

  My cheeks heated uncomfortably.

  McCarney raised an eyebrow at his secretary, and Barb ducked her head, scooting her chair back under her desk and returning to her pile of papers. Her fingers danced over the keys in an almost blur, and I realized why she hadn’t bothered to type with me around. She could afford to dawdle—she was the fastest typist I’d ever seen.

  McCarney’s office was dim, probably due to the field agent who sat in one of the chairs opposite the big, cheap desk in the center of the room. A ficus plant stood in the corner, the only color brought to the place. The rest of the furniture and walls were shades of gray—the stapler, typewriter, papers, fountain pens, paper clips, and used coffee mugs all blending together in dull government-standard tones.

  “Take a seat, Clemmons,” he ordered, walking around his desk then sitting in his own chair that creaked as he leaned backward. “You remember Sawyer.” McCarney nodded to the man in the pinstriped suit.

  Like McCarney, Sawyer’s clothes looked a day old. Which was odd. Jimmy Sawyer was a creature of refined taste and expensive fashion, who never skipped out on grooming. What could’ve possibly had him driving from Boston all the way to DC in the middle of the night?

  “I do. Good to see you again, sir.” I reached for Sawyer’s hand.

  His lip curled, but he extended his gloved hand and shook mine. “I really can’t say the same, Clemmons.”

  Not surprising considering most agents hated me. Yes, I was technically too young to be working for the BOI, but here I was, every other week, getting a new assignment, collecting my checks, all thanks to…extenuating circumstances.

  In my opinion, there was nothing for Sawyer to be jealous or bitter about. He had the better deal. He was free to roam the country.

  But they kept me on a tight leash.

  For good reason.

  McCarney rested his elbows on his desk, rubbing his temples. “Just brief him, Sawyer.”

  “I really think you’re making a mistake, sir. This is too important to let Clemmons take care of it. I mean, this is the biggest threat to national security we’ve had since the war, and you’re going to just entrust her capture to—”

  “Clemmons is the strongest hunter we’ve got,” McCarney interrupted, “and we need our strongest to resist her voice.”

  I straightened. “Her voice, sir?” Every muscle in my body was wound tight like a coiled spring. Like a bullet the split second before it escaped the chamber. Pressure built up insurmountably inside me.

  I glanced at Sawyer. The agent’s jaw was clenched, hating my involvement. Hating that the Bureau relied on me so heavily. They would never give him my responsibilities.

  For good reason.

  McCarney’s blue eyes narrowed. “Tell him what you saw, Sawyer.”

  The senior agent let out a frustrated sigh, then he started his story, slow at first, then gaining speed.

  “I was in Boston, at some drum called The Blind Dragon.”

  Neither McCarney nor I blinked at a BOI agent visiting a speakeasy. Whether Sawyer was there to do his job—locating any hints of organized crime within the illegal establishment—or partake in some hooch didn’t matter. Prohibition meant little to the BOI. In all honesty, we hated it. All the bootlegging and secrets had paved the way for organized crime to take over. For mob bosses to infest cities and fill the streets with blood.

  “And there was this canary. A real looker. Her voice…I ain’t never heard nothing like it before. She sang and no one moved. I forgot where I was. I forgot who I was. Everything. When she stopped singing, the next thing I knew she was over at the bar, pouring a drink. Then these three uni boys start tryin’ to get her to leave with them. The bartender hops over the bar and the leader of the fellas hooks him right in the jaw. The bartender doesn’t even blink until the lad pulls out a revolver.”

  “Were you packing heat?” I asked.

  Sawyer shot me an annoyed look. “Course I was. Had a Remington in my coat. Didn’t even have time to get to it, though, before the little shit pulled the trigger. Only the bullet didn’t hit. It stopped. Midair. And then just…fell to the ground.”

  McCarney and I stared at Sawyer, hanging on every word. My pulse was pounding. My palms were now seriously sweating.

  This is it.

  “My heart stopped, too,” Sawyer continued, moving a trembling hand to wipe his mouth and rub the day-old scruff on his jaw. “Everything just…stopped. Because of her.”

  “The singer?” My voice was barely above a whisper.

  Sawyer nodded. “She yelled ‘stop!’ and everything did. The bullet, the patrons in the bar, my own damn breathing.”

  Sounds magnified. Barb clacked away on her typewriter through the thin office door. The clock hanging on the gray wall ticked and the ceiling fan whirred above our heads.

  McCarney slid his gaze back to me. “We found her, Clemmons. We found the lost siren.”

  Chapter Three

  The Singer

  Folding the rag over for the cleaner side, I approached the next table and wiped it down, putting in a little more elbow to buff up the shine. The previous occupants of the table had been rowdy, splashing their drinks all over the place, laughing and carrying on. But these were regulars, and they left a decent tip most nights, so I didn’t mind cleaning up their mess.

  “Eris, a little help over here?” Stanley called from behind the bar.

  I held up a finger to let him know I’d be there in a moment, then wiped off the seats, tucked the rag into my apron, and hurried back around the bar. It wasn’t ten seconds before I’d left the table that another group of young folks slid into the seats with their cocktails.

  Stanley was working as fast as he could, multiple bottles by his elbows, switching from one to another and topping off drinks. He was much faster than I was, but slack had to be picked up. We were jam-packed.

  The “mishap” last night had enticed more than a few flappers and flaming youths to come to the place where their friends had been beaten to a pulp by a bartender.

  Luckily, no one seemed to be coming round to see me an
yway. When the bullet had dropped to the floor, I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting. The tinkling sound of brass hitting wood had seemed roaring within the silence of everything coming to a grinding halt. I thought maybe they would drive me out of town and I really would have to hit the rails. Then I’d have the excuse I needed to leave Boston and find the sleepy little town I’d always dreamed of.

  Instead, everyone chalked it off to the gun misfiring. As if a bullet could stop midair from the misfire of a gun. But there was no other logical explanation for what they witnessed. People believe what they want to believe, Madame Maldu had told me long ago, when I first discovered my little gift—or curse, depending on how you looked at it.

  I had been eleven, maybe, when I experienced the full power of this strange magic inside me. There had been other times—slips, as Madame called them—but none such as this one. Madame had just bought The Blind Dragon and was hiring contractors to fix up the place. They were working inside and I had been tucked in a corner, reading a book of fairytales with breathtaking illustrations. One of the men had encouraged me to read them out loud for their entertainment. At first, I had shaken my head. Madame Maldu had told me never to say a word.

  Then I thought they would be someone else’s words, not even mine. So surely it couldn’t hurt anything. At the time, all I knew was that when I spoke, people did what I told them to. What harm could I do in reading a story?

  So I had started reading Little Red Riding Hood to the workers. I should’ve noticed the abnormality at the beginning. I should’ve noticed that when I read how the wolf talked to Little Red in the woods, the workers would stop and look around warily. But it wasn’t until I got to the part where the wolf eats Little Red and I was trembling with fear at the mention of his big scary teeth that I realized…the grown men were as scared as I was.

  So scared, in fact, that one ran outside. Ran right out into the middle of traffic.

  He was badly injured.

  The men couldn’t understand why they had been so frightened. Why had a child’s fairytale caused them such distress? But it had been me.