Iris did not know, when she stepped out of her squished little brownstone on Cobble Hill, that she was going to die. Of course, everyone dies eventually, but for Iris it was far more immediate.

It was a brisk autumn morning, which is of no great significance except that Iris had not thought to bring her coat. Instead, she shivered as she marched down the street. Intent on not rubbing her arms. Hiding the extent of her chill from passersby who certainly wouldn’t have noticed.

“Brooklyn Heights Promenade. Green vest. Exactly at nine-o-clock.” She mumbled.

There had been more, of course, written onto a damp bar napkin. Iris hardly remembered the words. What she remembered was that feeling. Not hope, exactly, but something dangerously close to it.

She glared at the moody skyline. “Brooklyn Heights Promenade. Green vest. Exactly at nine-o-clock.”

Gabriel watched the promenade. Bored. At least, he looked bored. In truth he felt rather exhilarated. There was always something exhilarating about a new death.

Not a real death, mind you. He hadn’t the stomach for something so ghastly.

He usually didn’t take on such dismal cases. But the girl had looked so frightened, sitting in a dark corner of a dark bar hidden on a dark street. And really, he had a heart.

Even if some of his clients believed otherwise.

He spotted her the second she erupted onto the promenade. It was the only way to describe it. She was a flurry of movement and awkward limbs. Yellow hair pulled into a disheveled knot that had sunk partway down her head. And not even wearing a coat.

“Poor thing must be freezing,” Gabriel said, far more amused than he ought to have been. He did not want someone who drew attention. Beautiful people made terrible clients.

Almost as bad as clumsy ones.

Bartholomew, for his part, said nothing. As per usual.

Gabriel slid a piece on the chessboard, hardly aware of the man sitting opposite. Hardly aware of the game, in truth. It was the surest way to blend in. There was always a string of people playing chess, gazing out over the water. As forgettable as the benches or the birds or any number of things that simply faded into the background.

If there was one thing Gabriel excelled at it was being forgettable. Quite the feat for a man dressed in a green suit.

It took longer than he would have liked for the girl to notice him. Her gaze snapped to his vest in a way that was most unsubtle.

Something to work on. He thought.

Iris plopped into a chair beside the man in the green vest. Blinked at him. Blinked, too, at the old man who sat across from them, so enthralled in their chess game he hadn’t even noticed her.

“Pay no mind to Bartholomew,” Gabriel murmured, using a manicured finger to slide a pawn across the board. It was, Iris noted, the same color as the bonewhite gamepieces. “He’s somewhere else today.”

Iris blinked again at the old man, wondered at the insanity that had led her to come, then cleared her throat and turned back to the man in the green vest.

“You said you could help me.”

“It’s something I excel at. Helping people.”

“How?”

Gabriel leaned back in his chair. “Really, Iris. Do you think you’re the first widow to come running after the debtors come to collect?”

Three days. It was all they’d given her. One morning she’d discovered Edgar’s body, bloody and purple and reeking of piss, and the next day a man had arrived at the doorstep. Rook Faulkner. He’d said. Your husband owes me five million dollars.

Iris swallowed the memory but couldn’t quite escape the scent of death that had followed her since. “So, what do I do?”

“Why my dear girl,” Gabriel slid another pawn into place, and Bartholomew cursed under his breath. Checkmate. “You die, of course.”

***

It must be said that Bartholomew had never much enjoyed galas. Especially the ones held on boats.

He glared out at the water. Already the sun had dipped low enough that it was stained an eerie black. Bartholomew much preferred the water during the day. When he could peer into the harbor and count the little fishes that swarmed beneath. At night it grew ominous. Each splash a shock. Each motion echoed by a shiver down his spine.

“Chin up, Bartholomew,” Gabriel said, thumping the aged man on the shoulder, “don’t want to meet death with a scowl.”

Bartholomew rather thought that if he ever did meet death in truth, he’d be grinning quite contentedly.

Gabriel looked rather dashing, if rather ordinary. Bartholomew was used to his costumes and yet he never quite got used to the man looking… well, normal. Gabriel was a connoisseur of extravagance. He wore loud, gaudy suits and hats that had been in fashion some seventy years ago, usually with polished nails to match. But now he looked dim. Stark, white hair brushed away from his face to reveal icy blue eyes and a black mustache. A young face, which Bartholomew had never quite gotten used to.

“See now the prey,” Gabriel murmured, “where then, is the hunter?”

Across the yacht, Iris was just visible. Gabriel marveled at how she could blend into the crowd here, unlike the promenade. There were so many blonde heads. So many women with drooping necklines and shimmering, golden dresses that Iris just became one of the many.

A good omen. He thought.

In truth, one’s ability to disappear is not an omen at all, but Gabriel had always been a bit superstitious.

Bartholomew grunted and poked Gabriel’s ribs. Bony things that seemed to poke back.

“Ah,” Gabriel smiled and placed a sleek, black hat atop his head, “so the hunt begins.”

Rook Faulkner saw Iris almost as soon as he stepped onto the yacht. A pretty thing, which was a shame. He hated when they were pretty. At least this one was also stupid.

“Why the hell would she come to a gala?” He grumbled.

It made his work far more difficult. If she’d just stayed put in her sad little brownstone, he would’ve ended it quickly. Instead she’d gone galavanting across the city, buying dresses and bleaching her hair. Spending money that, by all rights, belonged to him.

A black cat scampered across the gangway, and Rook smiled.

A good omen. He thought.

Iris did not see the cat. If she had, she certainly wouldn’t have thought it an omen of any kind. She also did not see Rook, who trailed behind her like a shadow, or even Gabriel who watched from above like a peculiar sort of guardian angel. She drank wine that tasted too bitter. Stumbled through laughing guests. The air around her was still stained with the smell of Edgar, dead in their living room. She wondered if she’d ever stop smelling it.

You die, of course.

Iris cursed and stumbled to the gunwale just as the ship lurched into motion.

That was that, she supposed. There’d be no turning back now. She could only hope that whatever Gabriel had planned would be enough to get Edgar’s debtors off her back for good.

Will it hurt? She’d asked.

Gabriel had smiled and placed a cold hand against hers. Dying usually does.

Best to be drunk then. Iris thought, and swallowed the last of her wine just as a raindrop splattered against her cheek.

The storm did not build gradually. Rather, it fell upon the gala with a wrath Gabriel quite admired. Such fickle beasts, storms. Though it certainly made a nice setting for a murder.

He watched Rook from his place on the second level. The rain pattered against the awning and spilled onto the deck, and at the edge of the ship he could just make out Iris. Drunk already, the poor thing.

“The trap is set,” he murmured.

Light spilled onto the deck in broken puddles. One moment Rook was a harsh line against the backdrop of the gala, and the next he was swallowed by shadows, yet Gabriel did not miss the glint of silver.

Gabriel had been slouched against the railing of the promenade, his breath a whirling cloud that disappeared into the sky. A man like Rook won’t use a gun. He’ll want to get his hands dirty.

Bartholomew had simply stared out at the water.

No, it will not be a gun. Gabriel had blown into his pale hands. It will be a knife.

There is a stillness with death. Not literally, though rigor mortis is certainly not an active thing, rather it is a stillness of a moment. As if the world can sense death approaching long before the victim can.

Iris felt that stillness even through the rainstorm. She’d felt it before, after all, and as is the way with so many things, one becomes more familiar with death the more they engage with it. The rain dribbled over the awning and spilled into the dark, churning water. Behind her, an orchestra fought against the storm. Yet she felt it still. A chill of something that passed over her. Apparent only by the way it made her skin pebble.

“It’s judgement day, Iris Vane.”

She closed her eyes, but she could see Rook even through her lids. Not as he was, angry and red and soaked through, but as he’d been.

Your husband owes me five million dollars.

A hand pressed against her shoulder, spinning her, and she forced her eyes open. Forced herself to gaze up at the man who had murdered her Edgar.

“Where is my money?” Rook hissed, even though he knew she didn’t have it. The thing of it was he enjoyed taking a life almost as much as he enjoyed the riches. Which is to say a great deal. He’d taken one look at Edgar’s brownstone. The sad, torn wallpaper. The flowered couch that was at least a decade out of style. And he’d known that this would not be a venture in money.

“Go to hell.” Iris said.

He smiled. “I’ll meet you there.”

It must be said of Iris that she was not a passive creature. When Rook’s knife flashed through the darkness, she moved on instinct. Dodging the swipe and landing her own hit against the man’s stomach. Though it was not a very strong one and she did not miss the blade entirely. It slid across her cheek. A burst of heat against the chill.

Rook let out a surprised gasp. “I had a feeling you’d be a fighter.”

He pressed her into the railing, one hand closed around her throat, and it was all she could do to scratch at it. Iris could feel the way his skin broke beneath her fingernails. Could feel blood pooling along his wrists. And yet Rook only smiled.

“Give my regards to your husband.”

Gabriel watched in the quiet of the shadows.

This was always the worst part. It wasn’t enough just to fake a death, Rook had to truly believe Iris had died else he’d never stop hunting her. Still, it was not easy to watch as the knife cut across her shoulder. Nor when Rook landed a blow against her head with such force it knocked her to the ground.

There was always the chance Gabriel had made the wrong read, however slim. Each blow made him question it further. His eyes darted to the rope. To the heavy belt of dive weights he’d dropped beside it.

Rook was a reasonable man. He knew he couldn’t leave too much blood, but even so it was hard to stop. Even after Iris had gone still, her head lulling as she fought for consciousness, it took several moments for him to reign himself in.

His eyes fell on a handful of dive weights, left behind by a lazy crewman.

A good omen. He thought.

Gabriel had only a moment.

He watched as Rook bound Iris’ hands and feet before strapping the belt around her throat. Inched toward the railing as the loan shark shoved her forward with his boot.

Iris had barely slipped over the edge before Gabriel was grasping the cool, wet metal and hauling himself overboard.

I really hate boats. Bartholomew thought.

Around him the waves crashed, knocking the yacht and sending his small little fishing boat into something of a spin. It was all he could do to keep it steady. To hold its course against the swells of water and the hammering rain.

And then he saw it. Something in the water. The white of Gabriel’s hair caught the light, like a reflection of the moon, and beside him a glint of yellow.

Iris.

Bartholomew smiled.

***

A man sat alone on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade.

He wore a suite of deep burgundy with a matching bowler hat and glared down at the chessboard. Nobody noticed him. He was young and peculiar, and yet he had a way of melting into the background. Just another stranger admiring the skyline.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Gabriel blinked up at the woman. Her hair was a deep red, styled in a blunt bob that sharpened her jawline. It took him only a heartbeat to catch the changes in her appearance before he turned away.

“Red suits you.”

Iris smiled and took the seat across from him, using a gloved hand to slide a pawn across the board. Though, Gabriel supposed, she was not Iris any longer, it was hard to think of her as anything different. She just hadn’t the look of a Lily.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” Gabriel said, moving a piece of his own, “my clients usually prefer to keep their distance.”

“I think a part of me will always live in Brooklyn.”

Gabriel nodded, for he understood the sentiment.

“Where is Bartholomew?”

“Said he needed a break today,” he said, frowning as he knocked her bishop aside, “I think he’s considering retirement.”

“He’s certainly earned it.”

The pieces were not cooperating. Gabriel glared at the board as if it were at fault. “I don’t like to work alone.”

“I didn’t peg you for the social type.”

“I could use a partner,” he glanced up at her, “a brilliant redhead, perhaps.”

Iris didn’t respond. They played in silence for a long moment, surrounded by the gentle hum of the crowd.

“Why do you do it?” She asked at last.

Gabriel shrugged. “What else is there to do?”

“You could go after Rook.”

“Bartholomew would never hear of it.”

“I thought Bartholomew was retiring?”

Gabriel leaned back in his chair. “I hide people, Iris. Let them start life anew. That is not a useful skillset for taking down loan sharks.”

“You could do it.” She hesitated. “We could do it.”

“Why, my dear Iris, are you propositioning me?”

“I keep coming back to Brooklyn. Walking up and down Cobble Hill. They sold the brownstone, did you know that? And everything inside it. Everything I was… everything Iris Vane was, is gone.” She pushed her knight across the board. “Everything but him.”

“I told you you have to forget Iris Vane. Forget Rook Faulkner.”

Forget Edgar. They both had the same thought, though neither voiced it aloud.

Iris knocked his bishop off the board, letting it clatter across the promenade before she pushed herself to her feet. “Think about it, Gabriel. I have a feeling you’ll have no trouble finding me once you’ve made up your mind.”

When she left, Gabriel glared down at the board.

Checkmate.