Jacks and Queens at the Green Mill by Marie Rutkoski Page A

wasn’t trying to look like a movie star. She had researched the persona she was trying to achieve. It was 1926, and she knew what stylish girls here were supposed to be. “I’m a flipper,” she informed him.
    The other half of his mouth lifted. “Do you mean flapper ?”
    This word made no more sense than the other one. It only served to annoy her.
    He kept smiling his warped smile.
    But what he called her didn’t matter. His disfigurement didn’t matter. It had made her forget her goal, but would do so no longer.
    She moved to brush past him.
    He slid a flat-palmed hand into her path. She stopped, drew back. The thought of a human touching her made Zephyr’s skin crawl.
    â€œSorry,” he said. “The boss is inside. When he’s in the Green Mill, no one goes out, no one goes in.”
    It was only then that Zephyr noticed the gun slung from his shoulder. This kind of gun had a name as well as a reputation: the Chicago Typewriter, some people in the Alter called it, or the Chicago Style. A machine gun, one that could kill scores of humans in one sweep. It was what Zephyr wanted, and she couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen before that he carried it, even if the barrel was black, even if his clothes were dark, even if the alley was darker.
    It was that face. His face had startled her, kept her from seeing more important things. Like the way his hands weren’t on the gun. It hung loose from its shoulder strap.
    â€œYou’re a rather poor guard, aren’t you?” She nodded at the dangling gun.
    His hands snapped to it, gripped the stock. “I got distracted.”
    â€œBy my movie star beauty?” She gave him a snide smile full of teeth.
    â€œI saw you,” he muttered, chin down but eyes up, never leaving hers. “I saw you appear.”
    Foolish, stupid . Why had Zephyr been so cursory, why had she assumed the alleyway was empty before she had stepped into her body? And now…
    â€œI know what you are,” he said.
    â€œA ghost.” The word came out flat. A ghost was what people in the Alter always believed they’d witnessed when they happened to see a Shade flicker in or out of sight.
    He shook his head. “A Shadow.”
    Close enough. Too close.
    â€œMy grandda told me about your kind,” he said.
    â€œOh?” Her voice rode high. This was why Zephyr didn’t like living in her body. She wasn’t used to it. It appalled her, the way the flesh could betray feelings better left unveiled, such as tension. “Then you must know that a bullet won’t touch me, and that you can’t stop me from going through that door.” She could disappear, drift right through it.
    He shrugged. “I know there’s a reason you haven’t already.”
    Zephyr’s eyes narrowed. Her former plan winked out like a faraway star. A new one began to gleam. Suddenly, her idea of waltzing into the Alter’s most dangerous nightclub and walking out with a machine gun seemed less fun and dramatic, more tiresome. Only small things in contact with her body would vanish with her. She’d have to stay solid to leave the club with a gun.
    The boy with the wrecked face presented an easier option—one that was enjoyable, too, in its way.
    â€œGive me the gun,” she said.
    He laughed.
    â€œDo it,” she said, “or I’ll vanish, float the ghost of my fist into your chest, and come alive inside your body. I’ll burst your heart into pulp.”
    He continued to smile. “You’re not as scary as my boss. I’m one of his bodyguards. If he comes out and sees I’m missing my gun, I’ll wish you’d killed me.”
    Her body went still. The stillness had a waiting quality, and when Zephyr realized that, she understood that she was hesitating.
    He noticed. And she noticed that he wasn’t really afraid of her, which meant either that his grandfather hadn’t informed him