Chapter One.
Truth Gets You Dead (1922)
They say death brings life. An overused sentiment meant to give widows a false sense of comfort. With death comes life— people must suffer and be buried in the ground before a new soul descends from the heavens and takes their place. It's a fair trade, according to God— the death of an old and withered sinner for the life of a pure, innocent saint.
Patrick Lynch was no sinner, though he was no saint either. He was a family man, a working man, a lawful man— he abided by the rules and stayed true to his word. He never lied, he never stole or cheated. Patrick Lynch was the upstanding citizen London needed, but he died. He was murdered in cold blood, a terrible punishment for a perfectly decent man. The fact is: God doesn't care if men are good or bad, he kills them all the same.
With Patrick Lynch's death, came Lucy Foster's life.
She was born kicking and screaming, a wolf with gnashing teeth. Patrick died the same way, fighting for air with the cold barrel of a gun in his throat. Perhaps, Lucy's mother thinks, that this is why her daughter is the way she is; that a part of Patrick's soul lives within her, still tormented and haunted by the loss of his life. Perhaps Lucy is the very reincarnation of him; they have the same eyes, after all— as blue as the depths of the ocean and piercing, magnetic.
Lucy Foster only takes after her uncle in appearance— she's not lawful, nor does she fear God and being an upstanding citizen is the last thing she cares about. She's a bloodthirsty beast in the shape of a girl, she craves glory and power and all the brilliant things that come along with it. She craves snow, straight out of the bottle just the way she likes it; she craves strong scotch and wine the color of an open wound.
Luckily, she knows where to find these things— a magical place where pain and pleasure meet in a beautiful, magnificent agreement. She knows it so well it's practically home.
The streets are bustling during the day, alive with the laughter of children and braying of horses. The air smells of petrol and smoke, the sour scent of alcohol lingering from the night before. Men and women, clad in their fancy black clothing, are walking about, completely absent-minded to the world around them.
These same men and women, the ones who are so self-absorbed, come alive at night. They shed their perfectly respectable skin and let their inhibitions roam free. They've been restraining themselves for far too long— "For the children," they say, "For my reputation, for business." They leave their children at home, along with their spotless reputation; they drink expensive liquor (because that fantastic business of theirs could afford them it), they fuck whomever they please and snort, smoke and swallow every drug in sight.
Because they're depraved, lonely creatures and this is the only time they can.
There is a magical place on this busy street; a building standing taller than the ones beside it, covered in dark green vines and moss. The one with the large red doors and tinted-glass windows in the shape of half-circles. Dark green velvet couches are scattered along the dark wooden floors, paired with bronze tables and chairs beside them. There's a stage at the very end, with bright lights thrust upon it and young women atop it, dancing their costumed hearts out. And when you look up, the ceiling is painted— innocent cherubs with devil horns and wilted flowers with blood dripping from their petals. The theme is jarring to the average believer's eyes, but to the people here, it's normal. It's expected.
Nine Lives, where people who were neither sinners nor saints came to simply be. Everyone belongs here; there's not a soul out of place.
