“If you say so, Lady.”
*
The two left wheels of Tara and Abelard’s carriage lurched off the ground as the driver swung them into the narrow gap between a large driverless wagon and a mounted courier. Tara scrambled to the elevated side of the passenger cabin, eyes wide, and shot an angry look at Abelard when he chortled.
The airborne wheels returned to the cobblestones with a bone-jarring thud. Tara’s teeth clapped together so hard her jaw ached. “Is our driver insane?”
He brought one finger to his lips. “Don’t let him hear you. Cabbies in Alt Coulumb are touchy, with reason. The Guild has zero tolerance for accidents.”
“They fire you if you have a wreck?”
“It involves fire, yes. Trust me, there’s no safer place on the road in Alt Coulumb than in a cab.”
“Especially when there are cabs on the road,” she noted as they cut off a one-horse hatchback, which careened out of control into a delivery wagon.
On the carriage floor lay a canvas sack Abelard had retrieved from his cell. From within, he produced a shiny black mass that unfolded into a pair of leather trousers. Kicking off his sandals, he slid the trousers on beneath his robe. When he saw her curious expression, he said, “Everyone keeps a few personal items. For special occasions, nights off, you know.”
“Those look pretty tight.” This wasn’t because Abelard had extra fat on his bones. His legs were rails, and the leather accentuated their meagerness. She watched him lever the pants into place with some concern for what would happen to his anatomy when they were ultimately fastened.
“What did your boss have to say?” He pulled a shirt from his bag.
“Nothing.”
“She knows what we’re doing?”
“I told her we were going to find Raz, the captain who brought us here.”
“The vampire.”
“Right. I told her some Iskari naval claims will influence how we proceed, and, judging from the condition of Raz’s ship, I thought he might have inside information. I gave her your notebook.”
“You didn’t say anything about the Iskari contracts and Kos’s death?”
“No.” The carriage lurched, and she gripped the inner railing to steady herself. Abelard had unlaced the front of his robe, and was unfolding a white muslin shirt with narrow sleeves.
“Isn’t it worth mentioning?” As he lifted the robe over his head, he passed her his cigarette. It was lighter than she expected, and warm to the touch. She had smoked before, but something about the way he handled his cigarettes made them look heavier than normal.
“Of course it is.” She studied the glowing orange ember. “You were right, back in the archives. This is my first big assignment, and I don’t want to run to Ms. Kevarian whenever something important comes up. I want to have a complete story for her when she asks about the Iskari contract.” I can’t risk looking weak, she thought but did not say. There are people waiting to see me fail.
The ember faded as she watched, starved for air. No sense letting it die. As she lifted the cigarette to her mouth, though, she heard a rustle of fabric; her fingers stung and were suddenly empty, and Abelard had his cigarette again. He stuck it into his mouth with a possessive glare, took a long drag, and exhaled smoke. “Which means we need to track down a vampire in the middle of the Pleasure Quarters at night.”
He had extricated himself from his brown robes, and the change was shocking. Where a novice once sat, young, eager, earnest, now rested a young man of Alt Coulumb, slick and polished in a rake’s tight clothes. The tonsure spoiled the effect so adroitly that Tara had to suppress a laugh before she spoke. “You said you knew someone who could help.”
“I’ve been studying for the priesthood since I was a boy, but I have a friend who spends a lot of time in low places. She knows the undercity.” His gaze trailed out the small window into the gathering night. “The question is whether she’ll be in any shape to help us.”
*
Catherine Elle arched her back and let out a scream of iridescent pleasure. Her world was bright colors and ecstasy, an explosion of light that shattered the shadows of the bar and broke the pounding music’s rhythm. Each second was beautiful and forever, a torrent of lava in her blood, melting her then cooling and compressing, tightening.
Until it was over. Then, the music seemed only repetitive, high strings slicing out a basic melody over punctilious bass. The room was small and dark, clogged with smoke and the sour stench of stale sweat. The strobing dance-hall lights cut her into slices bereft of movement, picture after picture of a small woman in a private booth in a disgusting bar.
The vampire raised his face from her wrist. Blood ran down his chin in rivulets. His eyes were wide in shock or fear, and the wound in her wrist was already closing.
“What the hell,” she said. “What the hell.”
Awareness returned slowly as the whiplash subsided. She knew where she was: a little booth off the Undercroft’s main dance floor, one of the myriad nooks Walsh set aside for clients who needed a little privacy. A translucent damask curtain separated the booth from the gyrating bodies on the dance floor, a smoky meld of flesh tones and black leather.
She rounded on the vampire. “You let go. You dropped me right when it was getting good.”
“Cat.” His fangs hadn’t retracted all the way, and there was still blood on his lips, so he spit a little as he tried to say her name. “You were way gone, you were great, I didn’t want to hurt you, that’s all.”
“Didn’t want to hurt me.” He reached for her arm again but she pulled away and he stumbled off the couch, colliding with the far wall. “You think I’m a damn cup? You drink up and put me down?”
Falling, the vampire cut his forehead on the corner of a picture frame—some pale-skinned human chick, mostly naked and wrapped in roses and thorns. The artist thought blood was the same color as roses, but neither the roses nor the blood in his painting was the same color as the blood—Cat’s blood—drying on the leech’s chin and shirt.
His excuses sickened her. She reached for the curtain.
“I took you as far down as you could go,” the leech stammered. At least he could talk now without spitting everywhere. “Farther than I’ve ever taken anyone. No human could have survived so much.”
“You saying I’m not human?” Her voice went low, menacing.
“You should be lying on the floor! You should be limp. You should be…” He stopped. Knew what was good for him.
For a moment she felt a little soft. “When did you get to the city, kid?”
“I’m fifty years old.”
“When?”
He snarled, and looked into her with a gaze that drunk life. He met something in her eyes that fell on him like a wall, and he flinched and recoiled.
“When?”
“A month back,” he said after a while.
“Living rough?”
He staggered under her question. “I heard the city was a good place to find work.”
“Last month. Hell. You’ve spent fifty years jumping farmers’ daughters and scaring livestock.” She wore a belt of braided black chain around her tight black skirt, with twenty gold coins woven into it. She worked two free, sunk a fraction of her soul into each, and tossed them on the booth seat. “There. Buy yourself someone who’s not looking for pleasure out of the deal. But for the love of Kos, don’t go around claiming you’ll be able to take a girl somewhere she’s never been before.”
He leapt for her, teeth bared and sharp, hands clutched into claws.
She dodged his grasping arms and brought her elbow down hard on his neck as he sailed past. He dropped to the floor and lay there.