“Grab him,” Barron says, and Anton kicks my leg, knocking me off balance. I fall onto the bed, which isn’t bad except that Barron locks his arm under my jaw and pulls me up on the mattress.

“Get off me!” I yell. The towel is gone and I struggle, embarrassed and scared, while Anton reaches into his back pocket.

A knife blade springs up out of the ebonized hilt in his hands. “What have we here?” Anton says, poking my calf where the stones are sewn up in my skin. The whole area throbs when he presses on it. Infected.

When he cuts me, I can’t help it. I scream.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“SLICK,” BARRON SAYS, looking at my bloody leg. He places the remains of three wet, red pebbles into his pocket. “How long have you been using that trick?”

Even the best plans go wrong. The universe doesn’t like anyone thinking it can be controlled. All plans require some degree of improvisation, but they usually don’t go wrong right away.

“Shove it up your ass,” I say, which is pretty juvenile, but he’s my brother and he brings that out of me. “Come on, hit me so hard that you knock a couple of my teeth out. That will be a great party look.”

“He remembers,” says Anton, shaking his head. “We’re screwed to the wall, Barron. Nice work.”

Barron curses under his breath. “Who did you tell?”

I turn to him. “I know I’m a worker. A transformation worker. Let’s start with you telling me why you made me think I wasn’t one.”

They exchange a maddening glance, like somehow they’re going to be able to call a time out, go into the other room, and discuss what to tell me.

Barron sits on the end of my bed and composes himself. “Mom wanted us to lie to you. What you are—it’s dangerous. She thought you’d be better off if you didn’t know until you were older. When you figured it out as a little kid, she asked me to make you forget. That’s how it started.”

I look down at the gory sheets and the sluggishly bleeding hole in my leg. “So she knows? About all of this?”

Barron shakes his head, ignoring the dark look Anton sends in his direction. “No. We didn’t want her to worry. Jail’s been tough on her and the blowback from her work makes her emotions unstable. But money’s been tight, even before she went inside. You know that.”

I nod slowly.

“Philip came up with a plan. Assassination is the biggest, quickest money there is. And the crazy money goes to killers who are reliable—who can get rid of bodies permanently. With you, we could do that.” He says all this like I’m going to be thrilled with my brother’s cleverness. “Anton made sure that no one knew who was really responsible for the murders.”

“And I don’t get a say? In being a killer?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “You were just a kid. It didn’t seem fair for you to go through a bunch of trauma. So we made you forget everything you did. We were trying to protect—”

“How about kicking me in the stomach? Was that the right amount of trauma? Or how about that?” I point to my leg. “You still protecting me, Barron?”

Barron opens his mouth, but no clever lie comes out.

“Philip tried to protect you,” Anton says. “You wouldn’t shut your mouth. You’ve had it easy. Time to toughen up.” He hesitates, his tone becoming less sure. “When I was your age, I knew enough not to talk back to worker royalty. My mother cut these marks in my throat when I turned thirteen and reopened them to pack them with ash every year until I turned twenty. To remind me who I was.” He touches the scars pearling his neck. “To remind me pain is the best teacher.”

“Just tell us if you talked to anyone,” Barron says.

You can’t con an honest man. Only the greedy or the desperate are willing to put aside their reservations to get something they don’t deserve. I’ve heard lots of people—my dad included—use that to justify grifting.

“Cut me in on the money,” I say to Anton. “If I’m earning it, I decide how to spend it.”

“Done,” Anton says.

“I told my roommate Sam that I was a worker. Not what kind, just that I was one.”

Anton lets out a long breath. “That’s it? That’s all you did?” He starts to laugh.

Barron joins in. Soon we’re laughing like I told the best joke anyone ever heard.

A joke they’re greedy and desperate enough to believe.

“Good, good,” Anton says. “Put on a nice suit, okay? This isn’t some school dance we’re going to.”

I limp to my closet. Leaning down, I sort through my rucksack as if for something appropriate. Pushing aside my uniform and a few pairs of jeans, I find a dress shirt and straighten up.

“So Philip had an idea and you went along with it? That doesn’t sound like you,” I say, walking awkwardly back to the doorway. Something catches my foot accidentally-on-purpose and I fake-stumble into Barron. My fingers are quick and nimble. “Whoa, sorry.”

“Careful,” he says.

I lean against the door frame and then yawn, covering my mouth with my hand. “Come on. Tell me why you really didn’t say anything.”

A weird half smile grows on Barron’s face. “It’s so unfair. You, of all people, get the holy grail of curse work. And me stuck with changing memories like I’m some kind of cleanup crew. Sure, it’s useful when you want to make some mundane thing easier. I could cheat at school or I could keep someone from remembering what I did to them, but what does that mean? Not much. Do you know how many transformation workers are even born in the world in a given decade? Maybe one. Maybe. You were born with real power and you didn’t even appreciate it.”

“I didn’t know it,” I say.

“It’s wasted on you,” he says, placing his ungloved hand on my shoulder. The hair on the back of my neck rises.

I try to react like I haven’t palmed the last unbroken stone charm he cut out of me and then swallowed it. Maybe transformation work is wasted on me, but sleight of hand isn’t.

I end up taking one of Dad’s old suits out of my parents’ room. Mom, predictably, didn’t throw out any of Dad’s belongings, so all the suits still hang in the back of his closet, slightly out of date and smelling of mothballs, as though they’re waiting for him to return from a long vacation. A double-breasted jacket fits me surprisingly well, and when I stick my hands in the pockets of the pin-striped pants, I find a crumpled tissue that still smells like his cologne.

I make a fist around it as I follow Anton and my brother out to Anton’s Mercedes.

In the car Anton smokes cigarette after nervous cigarette, watching me in the rearview mirror. “You remember what you’re supposed to do?” he asks as we head into the tunnel to Manhattan.

“Yeah,” I say.

“You’re going to be okay. After this, if you want, we’ll cut you a necklace. Barron, too.”

“Yeah,” I say again. In Dad’s suit I feel strangely dangerous.

The brass front door of Koshchey’s is wide open when we pull up in front, and there are two enormous men in sunglasses and long wool coats checking a list. A woman in a glittering gold dress pouts on the arm of a white-haired man as they wait behind a trio of men smoking cigars. Two valets come and open the doors of the Mercedes. One of them looks about my age, and I grin at him, but he doesn’t smile back.

We’re waved right through. No list for us. Just a quick check for guns.

The inside is packed with people. Lots of them crowding the bar, passing drinks back for people to carry to tables. A bunch of young guys are pouring shots of vodka.

“To Zacharov!” one toasts.

“To open hearts and open bars!” calls another.

“And open legs,” says Anton.

“Anton!” A slim young man leans over with a grin, holding out a shot glass. “You’re late. Better catch up.”

Anton gives me a long look, and he and the other man move away from Barron and me. I push on into the large ballroom, past laughing laborers from who knows how many families. I wonder how many of them are runaways, how many of them slipped out of some normal life in Kansas or one of the Carolinas to come to the big city and be recruited by Zacharov. Barron follows me, his hand pressing against my shoulder blades. It feels like a threat.

Up on the little stage on the other side of the ballroom, a woman in a pale pink suit is speaking into the podium microphone. “You might ask yourselves why we here in New York need to give funds to stop a proposition that’s going to affect New Jersey. Shouldn’t we save our money in case we need to fight that same fight here, in our own state? Let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen, if proposition two passes in one place, especially in a place where so many of us have relatives and family, then it will spread. We need to defend the rights of our neighbors to privacy, so that there will be someone left to defend ours.”

A girl in a black dress, her brown curls pulled back with rhinestone clips and her smile a little too wide, brushes against me. She looks great, and I have to stop myself from telling her so.

“Hi,” Daneca says languorously. “Remember me?”

I somehow manage not to roll my eyes at her over-the-top performance. “This is my brother Barron. Barron, this is Dani.”

Barron looks between us. “Hey, Dani.”

“I beat him at chess when his school came up to play my school,” she says, embellishing on the simpler cover story we came up with yesterday.

“Oh, yeah?” He relaxes a little and grins. “So you’re a very smart girl.”

She blanches. Barron looks sharp in his suit, with his cold eyes and angelic curls. I don’t think that Daneca’s used to slick sociopaths like him flirting with her; she stumbles over her words. “Smart enough to—smart enough.”

“Can I talk to her for a minute?” I ask him. “Alone.”

He nods. “I’ll get some food. Just watch the time, player.”

“Right,” I say.

He grips my shoulder. His fingers dig into the knotted muscles in a way that feels good. Brotherly. “You’re ready, right?”

“I will be,” I say, but I have to look away. I don’t want him to know how much it hurts for him to act kind now, when none of it’s true.

“Tough guy,” he says, and walks off toward the samovars of tea, and the trays heaped with dilled herring, with fish glistening in the ruby glaze of pomegranate sauce, and with about a million different kinds of piroshki.

Daneca leans into me, presses a blood packet wrapped with wires under my jacket, and whispers, “We got the stuff to Lila.”

I look up involuntarily. The knots in my stomach pull tighter. “Did you talk to her?”

Daneca shakes her head. “Sam’s with her now. She’s really not happy that all we could get in is a pretend gun that Sam is still gluing together.”

I picture Lila’s sharp-edged smile. “She knows what she’s got to do?”

Daneca nods. “Knowing Sam, he’s overexplaining it. He wanted me to make sure you were okay with reattaching your wires to the trigger mechanism.”

“I think so. I—”

“Cassel Sharpe,” someone says, and I turn. Grandad is wearing a brown suit and a hat turned at a rakish angle, feather pin through the band. “The hell are you doing here? You better have some peach of an explanation.”

Yesterday when we went over the plan again and again, I never thought about Grandad showing up. Because I’m an idiot, basically—an idiot with poor planning skills. Of course he’s here. Where else would he be?

Seriously, what else could go wrong?

“Barron brought me,” I say. “Aren’t I allowed out on a school night? Come on, this is practically a family event.”

He looks around the room, like he’s looking for his own shadow. “You should go on home. Right now.”

“Okay,” I say, placatingly, holding up my hands. “Just let me get something to eat and I’ll go.”

Daneca backs away from us, heading in the direction of the bar. She gives me a wink that seems to indicate the outrageous assumption that I have things under control.

“No,” he says. “You are going to get your ass out on the sidewalk, and I am going to drive you home.”

“What’s wrong? I’m not getting in any trouble.”

“You should have called me after I left you a message, that’s what’s wrong. This isn’t a good place for you, understand?”

A man in a dark suit with a gold tooth looks over in our direction with a laugh at the familiar story we’re playing out. Bratty kid. Old man. Except that Grandad’s acting crazy.

“Okay,” I say, looking up at the clock. Ten after ten. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

“I’ll tell you on the way,” he says, wrapping his hand around my upper arm. I want to pull away from him, but my arm’s been wrenched out of its socket too many times in the last few days. I let him lead me toward the door until I come close enough to the bar to be able to get Anton’s attention.

“Look who I found,” I say. “You know my grandfather.”

From the way Anton’s eyes narrow I’m guessing Grandad isn’t his favorite person. The zinc bar top is littered with shot glasses and at least one empty bottle of Pshenichnaya.

“I just stopped in to see some old friends,” Grandad says. “We’re going.”

“Not Cassel,” Anton says. “He hasn’t had a drink yet.” He pours one for me, which gets the attention of some of the other young laborers. They turn their evaluating gazes in my direction.