Dragonfly (4 page)

The glass shatterjay lay warm in its strap holster around my thigh, my pulse thudding against it. A glowing blue Lvov martini sat untouched before me on the copper counter. Already, three men and a woman had tried to buy me another one, their gazes roving over me, but none had caught my eye as useful or attractive. Still, I should flirt a bit. I was a thief on the make, after all.

I cocked a three-inch heel into my stool’s rung and sipped the blue martini. It burned my throat like acidfuel, tart and strong, the fumes rising into my nose. A few more of these and I’d be on my much-admired ass. But I needed the courage. I felt unprepared, and I hated it. There’d been next to nothing in my brief about Dragonfly himself; just a bunch of anecdotes and aliases and some poorly educated guesses that passed for analysis. I still didn’t know what he looked like, what he was planning, if his people had even arrived on Esperanza yet. I didn’t even know his real name.

I downed the rest of the martini and plonked the glass back on the bar. I didn’t want to know his name. The idea of getting that intimate with him made me cringe. Distance is what codenames are for. He was Dragonfly, the rebel asshole who’d murdered my friends. End of story.

“Care for another, beautiful?”

A shiver spidered down my spine.

Warm blue eyes, deep as space. Perfect lips turned up in a seductive smile, cheekbones like chipped ice, pale blond hair, crisp and crushable. He wore an immaculate black suit, and moved like a dancer, elegant and deliberate. I knew for a fact he was built like one as well.

My thighs tingled, and I wanted to press them together. He didn’t look a day older. If anything, he looked even better than I remembered. So perfect, the kind of man who’d bring your mother flowers on your first date. Hard to believe so much was so dangerously wrong with him.

I faked a smile, fighting to stay in character while my pulse raced. “Sure. Why not?”

Malachite leaned toward me, and his hair brushed my cheek, his familiar smell evoking those warm starlit nights in New Moskva, before I’d realized what he was.

“We can talk here,” he murmured, “the room is iced. It’s good to see you, Aragon.”

Liar.

I flushed. I thought I’d forgotten my anger. I thought I’d forgotten how he’d humiliated me. But I wanted to hit him, and my fingers itched as I pictured the shatterjay tight around my sweating thigh. I clenched my fist, shaking. Calm down, Aragon. Remember it’s not his fault. They make drugs for what he’s got, only Axis won’t let him take them, even if he wanted to.

There’s a note in his security clearance data, under “Personality” where most agents have “prone to stress” or “borderline obsessive” or “poor anger management”. I know, because six years ago I bribed someone in records to let me see it. What’s wrong with Agent Malachite is called
antisocial personality disorder with extreme psychological violence.
That’s the fancy term for a charming psychopath. It means that he has no conscience. Everything is an act, every word a lie designed to catch you out. He can’t help it, and wouldn’t if he could. You can never, ever trust him.

Axis like him that way. It makes him such an effective agent.

The bartender brought my martini. I leaned away so Malachite couldn’t touch me, wouldn’t feel the heat in my skin.

“My omega brief wasn’t all there. Where’s the rest of it?”

He sipped his vodka tonic, leaning back on the bar to show off, and a few wisps of blond hair fell in front of his eyes. It looked unintentional, but wasn’t. He does that when he wants to look harmless. When he wants some woman to take pity on him.

“Charmed to meet you, Lazuli,” he said, ignoring my question. “I’m some rich asshole who’s trying to get up your skirt, and it’ll take me about two minutes to piss you off so badly you’ll walk away to join the tarocchi table on the left.” He grinned at me, in full disarm mode.

Despite myself, a smile tempted my own lips. He loved this playacting stuff. It came naturally to him. “So what’s at the table, then?”

“The rest of your omega brief. Dark hair, blue silk suit, platinum rings on his right hand.”

I didn’t need to turn around; I’d catalogued all the players already. Blue suit hadn’t tried to hit on me yet, though I’d hoped he might. Hypnotic dark eyes, long deft fingers that made me stare, sinful lips that put dirty thoughts in my head. He sat alone, no jeweled woman or handsome boy draped over his shoulder, and barely said a word. He drank top-shelf scotch and water, spoke Rus with a faint Espan accent, and had won a couple of hundred thousand sols while I’d been sitting here. A smart player. Cute.

My skin prickled. I hadn’t known I’d be dealing with yet another agent. “I thought you were my source.”

“I am. He’s Dragonfly.”

I choked on a mouthful of martini.

Blue suit was Dragonfly? He couldn’t be. He was too … normal. Too soft. I’d expected hardness, scorn. A monster. Surely, you’d recognize a callous killer like that. He’d be different.

I studied him again from the corner of my eye, alcohol still burning my throat, but now my skin burned too, out of embarrassment that I’d thought him attractive. He looked harmless, insouciant, younger than I’d imagined. Not the vicious anarchist who’d murdered Mishka. Scorn stung my heart. No doubt he paid others to do his dirty work. I’d make him regret I’d ever laid eyes on him.

Malachite tucked a stray curl behind my ear, his fingertips leaving a warm trail on my cheek. “He’s played here six nights running,” he said absently, as if I distracted him. “Games of skill. Tarocchi, baccarat. Never dice or faro. Sometimes he wins, sometimes not. If he’s cheating, he’s careful at it.”

He gave a wistful smile, his fingers lingering on my lips, and I remembered the night we’d cheated the poker game at New Smolensk of two million sols to expose their crooked pit bosses. We’d made love that night in a heap of crisp plastic cash, high on winning and oblivion crystals, his fingers clenched around mine, our bodies slick …

I flushed, and pushed his hand away, every breath of air shivering my skin. “Do Esperanza security know he’s on the station?”

“Those clueless idiots? They’ve got no idea. They don’t even have imagery to facematch him. You’d think he’d been flying the spaceways with a bag over his head.”

“But what’s he doing here? He can’t check vault security from the tarocchi room.”

Malachite grinned knowingly. “That’s the question, isn’t it? He’s alone, no lovers, never the same friends two nights running. His ship’s in dock, epsilon five. Old Nebula class, new biochemical security.”

Curiosity scratched my nerves. The latest biochem had likely cost more than the ship. “Why? What’s he keep in there?”

He shrugged, dismissive, as if such a menial job were beneath him. “I thought you might like to look. If you really think you can get in.” His wicked eyes flashed a challenge.

I tried to stay cool, but the old excitement bubbled inside me, the way we’d teased, challenged each other to impossible games. My pulse quickened, and I wanted to lick my lips, my mouth watering. I wanted to tease him back, say yes, compete the way we used to. Say his name, flirt like old lovers, taste that lost thrill.

He knew what he was doing, the bastard.

I hesitated. I could call Director Renko, tell her I couldn’t do this, that she should send someone else. The last carefree piece of my heart had shattered along with my fiancé’s skull, but Malachite—his real name is Nikita, if you’ve got the misfortune and the security clearance to be properly introduced, and it’s one real name I sure wish I’d never learned—had made the first and biggest crack. Did I really want anything to do with him?

Did I want to return to the time before I’d gotten old and cynical? When I’d loved my life, when the Empire I served was beautiful and exciting and worth the struggle, when every daybreak brought a new adventure?

Hell, yes.

I gulped my martini, fire engulfing my belly from the heady mix of alcohol and danger. I didn’t care if Malachite was still the sexiest man I’d ever met. I’d give him his challenge. Damned if I’d give him me.

“You think I can’t get in?”

“I know you can’t. I’d just love to see you try.” He flicked his deep blue gaze down my body, and it burned over every curve.

My spine tingled warm, even as my indignation rose. “Fine. Watch me.”

“With pleasure. Your two minutes are up, by the way. You can slap me if you like.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

I slid my glass onto the bar and walked away before he could say
too late.

A thin woman in furs and diamonds was folding her hand, leaving a place open at the tarocchi table. I sauntered up and sat down, crossing my legs conspicuously, the soft leather chair warm beneath my thighs, and waved at the waiter for another martini. Dragonfly glanced at me, those hot brown eyes giving me a swift once-over, and glanced away again. Was he impressed? I couldn’t yet tell.

I nodded at the cashier, and he pushed a short stack of shiny chips my way across the merlot baize. The old man opposite me was dealing, his ancient fingers heavy with alabaster rings. I tasted my icy drink and watched him, half a sultry eye on Dragonfly.

The game was seven-card tarocchi, four in the kitty. You bid for how many tricks you thought you could take, then whoever won the bid got the kitty and called a suit for the king, and whoever held that king became their partner for that game. You could bet on who’d win which tricks with which cards, where the kings would end up, how many tricks would get trumped, who’d win the most or the least points. Pretty much anything.

Dragonfly glanced at his cards, dark chocolate strands of hair falling over his cheekbones, and bid four cups in his soft Rus.

I studied my cards, keeping my face blank. I had the queen and prince of cups. If he wasn’t careful we’d be partners.

I sipped my martini. “Five.”

The fat Espan man to my right snapped his hand closed and passed, his damp jowls wobbling.

The dealer peered at his cards, bony fingers quivering, and bid five swords in a wavering voice.

Dragonfly flipped a chip between those talented fingers. “Pass.”

A gambit, for sure. The dealer bid swords, and the remainder of my hand was a washout. The rest of those cups had to be somewhere. Dragonfly must surely have the cards for six, yet he’d forgone. Was he tempting me to call cups for the king, which would no doubt make him my partner? Was he flirting with me?

My stomach clenched. In my work, I’d cozied up to murderers, lowlifes and guys who turned me off—who hadn’t?—but never to such a personal enemy. I steeled myself, imagining the needling I’d get from Malachite if I couldn’t go through with it. Dragonfly wasn’t repulsive to look at, at least. On the contrary. My gaze took in those soft dark lashes, melting brown eyes, that maddening mouth.

Two-faced little bastard.

I shifted in my seat, my nerves writhing. “Six.”

The ancient dealer shook his head.

I reached for the kitty and swapped a four of coins for the queen. “The king is cups,” I said, and the betting started.

I put two chips on my team winning all the kings, and another on winning the last trick with the king of cups, four to one each.

Dragonfly sipped his scotch and slid four chips across the table. He was betting on valat, which meant he and his partner—surely me—had to win every trick. The payout on valat was sixteen to one. As he withdrew, his fingers brushed mine, accidentally or not. My palm tingled, and I wanted to yank my hand away.

I led the fat red queen, and the game was on.

***

When Dragonfly led the last trick with the king of cups, I tossed my queen of coins on top, my fingers damp. His gaze came to rest on mine, and heat crept over my skin from somewhere below my waist. I’d been certain he held that king. We’d just won nearly eight hundred thousand sols. Most of it was Dragonfly’s, of course, since he’d made the chancy bet. But valat etiquette demanded he award a portion to me. I didn’t want his money. I didn’t want anything his bloodstained hands had touched. I averted my eyes, feigning modesty, hoping the color hadn’t reached my face.

The cashier collected the bets and measured chips into four stacks without needing to look.

Dragonfly flipped my tricks over, totaling the points at a glance. “Twenty-four for the lady, and another martini, if you please.”

Before I could protest, the cashier slid nearly a quarter of Dragonfly’s chips across to me, and the waiter whisked away my glass and placed a fourth shimmering blue drink before me with a flourish. I swallowed half in a single gulp. I’d need it to spend much more time in this murdering bastard’s company without punching in his sweet choirboy face.

The fat Espan to my right was broke and leaving the game. As the cashier collected, Dragonfly watched me, flipping a chip over his knuckles. He was left-handed, a thick platinum chain gleaming on his wrist. “A clever game, miss.”

I smiled at him over my glass’s rim, my vision refusing to focus. Four Lvovs in twenty minutes was probably a bad idea. So he’d caught me off guard with his cute-and-harmless act, but I was wise to him now. I could handle him. “A dangerous one, if you give away too much. Do you always twirl that chip before you bluff?”

“Only when the stakes are so enticing.” He showed me his smile for the first time, charming, confident, attractive.

I just wanted to punch him harder. “What a pity. Your winnings must so rarely live up to your expectations.”

“But tonight I’ve already won what I desire.”

I eyed his pile of chips with disdain. “Eight hundred new? How dull of you.”

“Your curiosity, miss. That’s a different game entirely.”

His candid gaze fixed on mine, and I flushed. Damn him for being right. I ached to know what he was up to, who and where his people were, why he sat here playing tarocchi and flirting with me when the vault lay seventeen stories below us. Why a man who had everything he could ever want—money, looks, brains, lifestyle—was an insurrectionist at all.

“You should stick to cards, then,” I said coldly. “It’s what you’re good at.” I tossed back the last of my drink. Damned if I’d listen to his bullshit any more.