‘“Look who it is, Minou,” Souris cooed. “Our Black Lion, back from the dead.”
‘I bowed at the bones. “Good seeing you again, madame. You haven’t aged a night.”
‘“Whereas you,” Souris tutted, “have seen far better days.”
‘“I’m hoping you can r-remedy that.”
‘“Hoping not praying?”
‘“Not my business any more.”
‘“So we hear.” Blind eyes flickered to Dior. “What is your business these days?”
‘“All due respect, madame. But none of yours.”
‘“Fair play.” Lighting a bone pipe, she breathed a plume of thin yellow smoke into my eyes. “Your desire? We’re fresh out of pretty nuns with bad taste in men, I’m afraid.”
‘I spoke the word as if it were chocolat melting on my tongue. “Blood.”
‘“Plenty of that for free right outside. Presuming you’re willing to dodge the soldiery and risk a tickling from the Inquisition.”
‘Dior tore her eyes from the curios about us. “There’s Inquisition in this city?”
‘“Arrived six nights back.” The old woman tilted her head. “That troubles you, girl?”
‘“I’m not a girl.”
‘Souris chuckled at the skeleton. “You hear that, Minou? She’s not a girl.”
‘“Our concern,” I hissed, “is commerce. And the blood I need is of a darker sort.”
‘“Mmm.” Madame Souris rose and wandered along her shelves. Taking down a timeworn, dust-covered book entitled A Complete and Unabridged Historie of Elidaeni Floristry, she opened it to reveal a dozen phials of desiccated blood inside a carven hollow.
‘“All from foulbloods, I’m afraid,” Souris declared. “Slow trade these nights. The Dyvok have made a sow’s ear out west, and the Voss a terrible ruckus eastways.”
‘“They’ll serve,” I whispered, wiping the sweat from my cheeks. “I’ll need a chymist’s foundry, too. Mortar and pestle. Hollyroot. Some redsalts and—”
‘The old woman raised her hand and nodded. “Blood for blood?”
‘“Blood for blood,” I replied, dragging up my sleeve.
‘Souris fished about beneath the countertop, produced phials and a glass tube tipped with a silvered blade. Then she turned to Dior, staring with blind eyes.
‘“One should do it, ma chérie.”
‘Dior frowned at that. “… What?”
‘“That’s the question isn’t it, Mlle Notagirl. What.” The old woman leaned closer, smoke drifting from wrinkled lips. “I’ve walked the halls of the king in yellow. Tasted delights in the arms of bleakborn princes and danced naked ’neath black stars with brides of the Neverafter. And not once in all my years have I smelled the like of you. So what are you?”
‘“Not for t-trade is what she is,” I growled.
‘Souris tilted her head, watching the empty air just above my left shoulder. “That’s the price, Lion Noir. I’ve no need of what’s in you. I’ve plenty of paleblood a’ready.”
‘I clenched my teeth. “That’s the only blood on offer, madame.”
‘Souris sniffed, packed the foundry and phials and herbs below the counter. “Pity.”
‘“Hold now.” Dior glanced at me, back at Souris. “He needs those.”
‘The old woman held up a needle-tipped phial between ink-stained fingers. “Everyone needs something, Mlle Notagirl. And every need comes with a price.”
‘Dior rolled up her leather sleeve. “Then I’ll—”
‘“No,” I growled. “Not like this. N-not for me.”
‘“As you like it.” Souris smiled like the cat who stole the cream, sold the cow, and fucked the maid. “They’ll be waiting here when you change your mind. I’ll even wrap them up for you, Chevalier.”
‘Dior had sense enough not to dance a fuss before the old woman, and after a small bow, we were limping out of the Price. But as soon as we were back in the dingy streets, the girl clutched my wrist and hissed, “Are you mad? You need that blood!”
‘“N-not that badly.”
‘“You can barely stand! How bad does it need to get?”
‘“Listen to me, girl.” I grabbed her arm, fury in my eyes. “I know Souris well enough to buy from her, but that doesn’t mean I trust her. Forget gibbets and pyres, forget peasant superstition. There’s a whole world beneath the one most folk see around them, and there’s true witchery in it. Coldbloods aren’t the fucking half of it. Duskdancers. Faekin. Fallen. Leave aside the Forever King, Chloe’s prophecy, all the rest. What do you think would happen if that world knew what you could do?” I shook my head, wincing. “The cure to any ill, any wound, just the stroke of a knife away? God, the things they’d do to own you …”
‘“But you need it!”
‘I gritted my teeth, coughing. “I’ll figure s-something out.”
‘The hour was late, and the ache in me was blinding as we trudged back out into the crush of the Redwatch streets. We found a dockside dosshouse – a nowhere fancy affair called Mandy’s Kiss, its walls crusted with dead hollanfel vines and runs of shadespine. I paid the publican twice the owing, told him we weren’t to be disturbed, and with a knowing glance to the “boy” at my side, he winked as we trudged upstairs. Locking the door behind us, I fell on the bed, curling into a very small, very miserable ball.
‘Dior plucked the curtains, muttering. “This place smells like someone died in it.”
‘“Someone probably d-did.”
‘“What are you going to do now?”
‘“Repeat p-performance?”
‘“Fucksakes, hero, you’re—”
‘“I’m thinking!” I snarled.
‘“Well, think quicker! Because you’ve the look a man half dead and all dying!”
‘I growled between clenched fangs, threw her my purse. “If you’ve a need to make yourself useful, go find me something to drink instead of pissing in my fucking ear.”
‘“How about I piss in a cup and save you the coin, you surly prick?”
‘“Great Redeemer, girl—”
‘My half-hearted moan was silenced as the door slammed. Thirsting, miserable, I curled up tighter and tried to think past the crushing pain in my skull, the cold lice in my skin. I was in no shape to threaten violence, and Souris wasn’t a dame to be gently fucked anyway – a man who brought quarrel to her door had better be carrying more than a broken sword. I could offer a greater sum, but the old bitch had those blind eyes fixed on Dior now. A tie of service might suffice, but I’d no wish to bind myself to the likes of her, and besides, I’d business to the east. Business bleak and all kinds of bloody. Business that had dragged me far from home and hearth already, and still, not even begun …
‘As if to remind me, I heard scratching at the window. Sharp fingernails drifting across cold glass. My stomach did a burning roll, and lifting my head, I expected to find dark eyes staring back at me, reminding me of that debt due. But there was only the wind, blowing a dry hollanfel vine across the pane.