Page 18 of Savannah Royals
“That’s over two weeks away,” Abe points out.
“And the fireplaces will be filthy on a Sunday.” I wrinkle my nose in distaste. “Which is less than optimal.”
“It’s almost one.” Tony consults his watch, and we return to silently casing the house. At 1:03, a soft light flicks on in the master suite. Moments later, a second one goes on in the bathroom.
“She’s unbelievable.” Tony shakes his head as he pulls out his small book to note the time. “Even pisses on schedule.”
Every night we’ve watched, Lady Astor has arisen between 12:55 and 1:18 a.m. for a nighttime bathroom break. On average, it takes her seventy-three seconds, start to finish.
“This is our window,” Paul muses. “Ten o’clock p.m. to one thirty a.m.”
I shake my head. “But Harry—”
“We’ll have to get him out,” Paul says, stopping me short. “Either that or neutralize him.”
Tony yawns, and it travels around our circle. I sink into Paul’s side.
“Close your eyes, Kitty-Kat,” he whispers, kissing my temple. “I’ll wake you up if anything happens.”
It’s tempting, and he’s so warm. Hard and soft in all the right places too. Knowing I won’t miss much, I let my eyelids drift to half mast, then fully closed.
It’s a safe bet because after two a.m., we enter what Abe calls the witching hours. The time when creation falls quiet. All is still, everyone in the world sound asleep. Everyone except ghosts and demons and witches.
And thieves.
CHAPTER FIVE
Saturdaynight,ImeetPaul and the guys at his loft on the outskirts of the bayou. He bought it just as I turned seventeen, when we’d been running steady jobs for two years. After our reputations—and the name of the Wolfpack—catapulted us into the stratosphere.
It was early summer of 1913 when we started running side jobs for Damien Keller, the leader of a bayou gang called the Magpies. I was fifteen.
“Why we doin’ work for somebody else, Paul?” Abe asked, grunting as he lugged our assigned barrels down the street. “Especially after he stiffed us on payment last time.”
“We’re not just running jobs. We’re learning. Like we learned about the Condors when Kat was seducing what’s-his-name…lover boy.”
“I didn’t seduce him,” I said sharply, dropping my barrel.
Abe snickered. Tony paused to wipe sweat from his brow. Even after midnight, the Savannah humidity didn’t sleep. It merely exhaled. Tendrils of early morning mist, steam rising from perhaps hell itself, crept alongside us through the streets.
“I didn’t!” I protested again. “Whatever he assumed was gonna happen…well, it didn’t. Boys are dumb.”
“And girls are brutal,” Tony said, giving me his infamous side-eye.
Paul wouldn’t be distracted. “Don’t you see? All these bayou gangs…they’re small fish. Stealing scraps from each other, staying downstream. They’re like hyenas, all picking at the same carcass. We’re better than that. We’re gonna be bigger than that. We’re gonna be the kingpin, the one they all bring their scraps to.”
“Seems to me that’s what we’re doing for the Magpies, giving them our scraps,” Abe muttered.
“Just wait,” Paul told him. “They aren’t gonna see us coming, but we’reRoyals. They’ll know it soon enough.”
Just before sunrise, we trudged, sweaty and exhausted, into Damien’s lair. He and two underlings were still awake, playing cards and tossing coins on the table.
“It’s done,” Paul announced, crossing his arms over his chest. “We moved the barrels. All forty-eight.”
“In one night?” Damien looked at Paul with a surveying brow. “Good work.”
Then he went back to his cards. I exchanged an anxious look with Tony.
Paul cleared his throat.
