Page 63 of Gunslinger Girl
“Better injured than dead.” Duchess curled in a chair like a thoroughly cross cat. His fingers dug into the plush arms. “Just think. If you hadn’t been there, Selene might have—”
“Don’t even say it!” Luster said.
Max remained quiet, his face troubled.
Pity told herself it was because of Selene. Without her it would all fall apart—that’s what Max had said. She understood Selene’s sway over the city, but it wasn’t until that moment that she realized the fierce loyalty Selene garnered as well.
“Has anyone seen Patrick Sheridan?” She hadn’t spared him a thought since Selene dismissed him, but now she wondered where he was. “He was there, too.”
“He’s probably hiding in his room,” Duchess said, “regretting ever coming here in the first place.”
Garland repositioned so that Pity was more comfortable. “He’s spending an awful lot of time with Selene.”
“They have business,” said Pity, unsure if she should say more.
Luster leaned in conspiratorially. “Ooh, what kind?”
“Politics,” Max interjected. He noticed Pity’s surprise. “What? It wasn’t hard to figure out. CONA politicians always have something about them—like a bad smell.”
“He’s right,” Pity said. “Selene says he’s going to be the next president of CONA.”
“Huh,” said Luster. “I know Selene can do a lot of things, but I didn’t think she could fix a presidency.”
“She can’t.” Clouds gathered in Max’s eyes. “She’d need too much help—especially from the corporations. And even then she wouldn’t get it from the one she really needs: Drakos-Pryce.”
“Tsk,” chided Garland. “Such little faith in Selene.”
“It’s not that,” Max said. “No one back east rises that high without Drakos-Pryce’s approval, and they’re the one corporation that won’t have anything to do with Cessation. They don’t like a candidate? All it takes is a scandal here or an ‘accident’ there, and that candidate is gone. If Sheridan thinks Selene can get him the presidency, he’s on a fool’s errand.”
“Well, maybe Selene knows something you don’t.” Pity couldn’t stop the annoyance that leaked into her voice. “And Sheridan seemed like the decent sort to me.”
“Not to mention you saved his life.” Luster grinned. “I bet a future president owing you his life is worth a whole lot more than a bottle of wine.”
She hadn’t considered that. Sure, she had helped save Sheridan, but only in the course of saving Selene. And herself. It had been easier than she would have expected, in the moment. Pulling the trigger. Surviving. But instead of pride she felt bitter guilt.
If those scroungers had cornered both you and Finn, would she be alive?
Pity shook her head. “No. He doesn’t owe me anything.”
They waited. On the heels of long minutes came longer hours. Silence ruled in the Gallery, a blunt contrast to the usual revelry. A few patrons bent over the gambling tables, quiet and intent, but most remained sequestered in their rooms. As Selene promised, no one was let in or out. The only breaks in the tense stretch came when someone would approach Pity to thank her. Flossie gave her a big kiss on the cheek; Kitty gave her a hug so fierce that she could hardly breathe. Halcyon burst in and out like a tornado, fussing fiercely over Pity and then stalking off to find Starr, declaring loudly that she would be fit to perform again before she knew it.
As the afternoon crawled into evening, Pity dozed against Garland, lulled by his warmth and the pills. Sleep was never far away, but every time she crossed the threshold she heard a pop of gunfire or saw the burst of red from the assassin’s eye. Or, worse, heard the thump of dead flesh against marble. Once she started so hard that she knocked over her drink. Max reached for the glass, but she snatched it away before he could get it. A porter instantly appeared and offered to get her another, sounding like he would have retrieved the moon for her if he could.
“You sure you’re okay?” Garland asked quietly.
“Still spooked, I guess.” Pity closed her eyes again, chasing the rest that eluded her. You did good. She repeated the words over and over, but the more she did, the more they bothered her, like an itch she couldn’t quite reach.
A commotion sounded beyond the front doors. Pity roused as they burst open and a tall woman strode in.
“I’ll be damned.” Luster whistled. “Look who’s here.”
The woman wore a long travel-stained coat and carried a pack that looked like it had seen decades, both of which she shoved at the porter who rushed to her side. Beneath the coat were a pair of holsters. Pity’s interest piqued—only Casimir’s inhabitants were allowed to carry weapons into the Gallery, but no one moved to take the guns. At the bottom of the steps, she paused and looked around, flinty eyes scanning the room.
Flossie met her there. “Welcome back, Ms. Bond. It’s been a while since we enjoyed your company.”
“Him.” The woman pointed at one of the young men lounging on a pile of cushions and then at another. “And him.”
Flossie waited expectantly.
