Ah.
“Shouldn’t be long. I’m Levvi, by the way.”
“Kemori Daphidone, traveling bard from Orig.”
She flashes me a friendly smile that melts a little when her stare snags on something behind me.
My heart leaps into my throat as a red-haired male strides past, weaving between the crowd, dressed in an immaculate sanguine coat—the color a perfect match to his red elemental bead on boastful display.
Relief prickles through me, eager anticipation making my hands clench and unclench.
Tarik Relaken.
He takes us in, a hungry leer that slithers over my corset-clad bust before he continues toward a booth, three other males lounging within. Leaving the curtain open, he pours into animated conversation, sliding the occasional glance my way. Half-lidded looks that paint me out to be a well-presented piece of meat he’d love to gnaw on.
I see you, asshole.
I catch sight of the cloaked male I encountered on the stairs, now moving through the dusky space—
My heart plummets.
He navigates past other patrons, my mind tangling into a messy knot while he makes for an empty booth at the back of the room …
He was in such a hurry earlier when he almost barreled over me on his way down the stairs. Now he’s back. Why?
Business? Curiosity? Or did he catch the wrong impression from me on the stairs?
Creators, is that why he’s come back in? Because he likes slumming it with nulls and he’s hoping for an easy lay?
His head turns in my direction, gaze sweeping across the upper half of my face like a warm, soft-bristled brush, stiffening the air between us.
I swallow a groan.
I fought hard to have this operation approved. It means everything to me. If that asshole ruins our carefully laid plans, we may not get another chance for who knows how long. Assuming another attempt is even approved.
“You new, honey? I haven’t seen you here before.”
Forcing my regard to soften, I look at Levvi, her null clip evident in the ear poking free of her luscious mane. “Just standing in.”
“I see.” She passes a glance around the room, lips barely moving as she whispers, “That male with red hair who just walked by? His name is Lord Tarik Relaken. Stay well away. Many performers draw his attention, then disappear.”
I widen my eyes in feigned shock. “Really?”
She nods.
“The color of your dress, your demure disposition, and long black hair …” She sweeps her gaze down my body, up again. “You’re just his type.”
I don’t tell her that’s the point.
The hope.
At least it was until I acquired a cloaked observer now watching me from the back of the room, arms crossed, perched against the table of an otherwise empty booth.
“There’s a reason this place hemorrhages null recruits, and it’s not the shit wages,” she bites out, flashing me a sour smile.
I don’t bother asking why she stays, the swell of her belly evidence enough. There are few options for a null to make a living in Gore besides slogging it out in the mines. No place for a pregnant female. Folk do what they can to get by, even if that means walking the fine line between a safe existence and a dangerous one.
“I appreciate the warning,” I whisper, thinking of the mysterious tip-off Sereme apparently received early in the dae when our current plans were already in motion. Wondering if it was from Levvi—too afraid to muddy her hands by getting involved with Fíur du Ath and our sympathizing, albeit bloody, dealings.
Understandably.
There’s no easier way to piss off our tyrant king than to liaise with his enemies.
A Runi steps close, a white robe hanging off his slight body, dark hair pulled back in a low bun. He looks down his nose at me, and my gaze drops to the only button pinching his floaty garb in place. The symbol of an etching stick upon the round of wood, signifying his ability to etch basic runes.
From the way he’s leering at me, I expected two or three. Perhaps some specialty gift like bloodlacing, or something else spectacular. At the very least, I thought his etching button would be more than elementary—made from silver, or gold.
Wish I could say that.
I accept the amplifying stick with a demure dip of my head instead, wrapping my sweaty palms around the hollow length of metal littered with dots and swirls that emit their own radiance.
I slice another glance at Tarik Relaken, my teeth gritted as I look back at the cloaked observer I certainly didn’t account for, unease slithering through me.
“You okay?”
No.
A parchment lark flutters close, tips its nose, tucks its folded wings, and plummets into my lap. “Never sung before such a large crowd,” I murmur, pocketing the message for later.