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hemopath activity, whether songsmiths’ emotions, wordsmiths’ illusions, or the less invasive talents, like Saint’s. Technically, the regs who paid for the show were also breaking the law, but the cops never seemed interested in arresting them. The lawmakers had written the law with a vagueness that made it possible for police to arrest hemopaths for just gathering in large groups, even without evidence that they had been performing. Maybe in a court of law the charges wouldn’t stick, but hemopathswere carted straight to Haversham, and no one ever left Haversham. Except Ada.
    Johnny caught Corinne’s eye and waved expectantly toward the microphone in front of her. He didn’t seem rattled by the turn of events. But then, Corinne couldn’t remember ever seeing Johnny Dervish rattled by anything. She turned on the microphone and cleared her throat. The remaining laughter and conversation died down as the unsuspecting patrons turned their attention toward her.
    â€œThat’s all for tonight, ladies and gents. Don’t forget to tip the band.” She stepped away from the microphone, then changed her mind and leaned back. “By the way, the cops are about to break down the front door, so now would be an excellent time to start panicking.”
    The reaction to her words wasn’t immediate. A few people even laughed. But without the band playing, the sound of encroaching sirens swept through the room. The crowd of carefree patrons quickly degenerated into a seething mess of confusion and alarm. It wasn’t likely that the cops would arrest the regs, but that didn’t mean they wanted to stick around for a raid. Johnny would give her hell for it later—he liked to keep his patrons happy, and purposely throwing them into a panic was not the best business practice. But Corinne wasn’t worried about the regs right now. The cops would have to fight their way through the fleeing patrons in order to find any hemopaths to arrest. An extra minute or two was all she needed. Satisfied with her work, Corinne slipped backstage to continue her search for Ada.
    Ada couldn’t hear the sirens from the basement, but she knew what was happening as soon as the first musicians started maneuvering down the stairs with their bulky instrument cases. She’d known a raid would happen eventually. According to Charlie, the cops broke up shows at the larger, ritzier Red Cat at least once a month. So far,the Cast Iron had remained below the notice of the bulls, but the bribes Johnny paid could go only so far.
    Ada had said good-bye to Charlie almost half an hour ago. He wanted to make it back to the Red Cat in time for the last set. She could have found another dance partner or asked Danny to make her a drink, but all she really wanted was some solitude. Now that the initial excitement of the evening had worn off, her fatigue had crept back, more insistent than ever.
    She kept her seat on the couch as the musicians filed in. They didn’t seem concerned by the ruckus upstairs. Someone pulled out a deck of cards and started dealing. Ada stood up when Johnny and Jackson emerged from the stairwell. Worry had started edging into her chest, pressing against her lungs.
    â€œWhere’s Corinne?” she asked.
    â€œBeing a pain in my ass, as usual,” Johnny said, with uncharacteristic shortness. He disappeared into his office with Jackson right behind. The door slammed shut.
    There was a creak of footsteps on the stairs, and Ada ran to the base. Gabriel was coming down, alone.
    â€œHave you seen Corinne?” Ada asked, aware that panic was bleeding into her voice.
    Gabriel hesitated on the bottom step, his eyes darting around the room. The thin line of a frown appeared between his eyes.
    â€œI thought she would be with you,” he said.
    Ada didn’t need to hear more. She slid past him and ran up the stairs. He called after her, but she opened the panel and ducked out. Gordon