This Fond Madness by Melissa Marr

Author:Melissa Marr [Marr, Melissa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-10-09T16:00:00+00:00

As they walked through the city, Alicia slowed her pace a little for him. Getting shot wasn’t fatal here, but it still hurt like a bitch. Frankie Lee. She hadn’t heard that anyone was asking about her, but he’d found Boyd, knew she was the one that ran the black market, and managed to get a meeting with Boyd. That meant that Frankie Lee was stealthy. She glanced at him. His lips were pursed, and he was limping a bit, but all things considered, he was holding up fairly well for having a hole in his thigh.

“How long you been dead?”

Frankie Lee frowned. “I don’t know. Week or two, I guess.”

“Well, here’s your newcomer welcome information, Frankie Lee.”

“Frank,” he interjected.

Alicia ignored him. “The grand pain in everyone’s ass around here is Charles. The old bastard and I have a regular conflict.” She reached into one of her trouser pockets and pulled out a couple pills. “Take these.”

Frankie Lee obediently swallowed them. He didn’t ask what they were, and she didn’t tell him. He’d figure it out soon enough when his leg stopped hurting.

As they walked through the ever-shifting city, a few people glanced their way. They were in one of the sections that remained steadfastly not modern. It was a bit cleaner than the way her experience of live-world equivalent was, but it was comforting all the same. Alicia had adjusted to the appearance of new sections in the city, blocks that belonged to eras that happened after she was already dead, but she felt ill at ease around flappers or—worse still—those cookie baking always-smiling women.

Not as sweet as they act, either, else they’d have moved past here.

Mr. Waverly tipped his hat to her. One of the Tadlock sisters tilted her ridiculous parasol so she couldn’t see them.

“Millicent!” Alicia called out to her, and predictably, the woman had a sudden urge to dart into a milliner’s shop. She was from Alicia’s own era and clung to the notion that ladies shouldn’t acknowledge ruffians. It didn’t stop her from buying the derringer she no doubt had in her handbag.

Alicia and Frankie Lee crossed a street separating the 1800s and early 1900s shops, and one of the young newshounds came scurrying into their path. “Who shot you, mister? Are you going to go settle up with them, Alicia?”

“Nope.”

“Is he?” the boy pestered.

“Don’t know. Are you, Frankie Lee?” She glanced at him.

He frowned at her. “No, and no one calls me that.”

“It’s that or Francis.” She smiled. “Your choice.”

After a pause, he nodded. “Not Francis.”

“Frankie Lee isn’t going to settle up with the one that shot him. That’s all you get for now.” She shooed the newshound out of the street. Once the boy was gone, she resumed her version of a newcomers’ talk, “Charles thinks my organization is crude. He’s a despot. Dictator, really. No free trade, no modernizing the city. If he had his way, women would all be relegated to arm candy or other foolishness. He builds what he wants when he wants, makes the laws he wants, and we’re just to be content with whatever he creates.

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