“I need to know exactly who hired you,” she whispered coldly. “If I’m satisfied with your answer, I won’t even make you drink this.”
Her grip relaxed just slightly and Agren struggled to breathe. He thought to cry out, but with the strength of her grip she could snap his neck with little more than a flick of her wrist. His next instinct was to reach for his knife or gun, but there was no way he could manage it in time. He had no idea who this woman was or how she knew what they’d been up to, but his only option was to go along with whatever she wanted. A warm wetness spread between his legs as he tried to speak.
“I don’t…really know him. He said his name was…Soroshi,” he managed. “He told us exactly what to do and where to find them.”
“Have you worked with him before?”
He shook his head desperately. “N…no. But I’ve heard others have. He’s been a big player for the past few months.”
The woman nodded and tilted her head to Hanos. The man was already dead, his now purple lips frozen open in permanent display of horror. She glanced down to Agren’s full glass and swept it up with her free hand.
“Coward,” she muttered, and downed the poisoned liquid in a single gulp.
Agren’s mouth fell open. Was she completely insane? Who in the void was she?
She swiveled back to him. “You answered my question, so you don’t have to drink it. I keep my word.”
“Wha…what are you?”
She smiled. “Hungry.”
Her grip tightened, and Agren tried in vain to scream. But she didn’t crush his throat—she just held him there firmly, and a bitter chill crept its way up his entire body. Finally a jagged, wrenching pain stabbed into his chest and a soundless shriek died on his lips. All the while the woman stood there in silence, her green eyes glossing over into a pure white haze as she drank his life away.
Chapter Four
Even in the final throes of autumn, the nighttime air in Vaschberg still managed to be damp and sticky, and somehow the stench grew more pungent with each passing month. Twenty years ago when Gregori Danev had first set foot in this city, the battered cobblestone walks had reeked of horse dung and human garbage. Now those stimulating aromas had been replaced by the acrid odor of sulfur and industrial discharge. On most mornings, the dense smoke packed in tightly with the fog and smeared across the sky in a greasy haze. Winter would help some, but not much, and Danev whispered a silent thanks to the Goddess that the sun had already fallen for the day. Given his foul mood, he really didn’t need to be reminded of the withering state of the city he called home.
“Expecting a slow night?”
Danev’s first reaction was to spin wildly with his cane and pop free the knife concealed at its tip, but he managed to maintain his dignity and instead settle for a startled hop.
“It’s the middle of the week, so probably,” he said.
Aram Kolasi didn’t reply. If he hadn’t spoken in the first place, Danev wouldn’t have even known he was there—perhaps he had been for some time. Long shadows swallowed the rooftop of the
Pampered Goddess
at this hour, and his bodyguard was intimate with each and every one.
“I’m guessing you didn’t stop by to share in the view,” Danev commented, if only to break the silence. He pulled his half-finished cigar up to his lips and let the taste calm his nerves.
“We received a wire from Morsh,” Aram reported, leaning out from the darkness with a piece of paper in his hand. “You might want to finish smoking first.”
Danev grunted as he reached out and grabbed the transcript. “That pleasant, eh?”
“The latest polls from the southeast show Chaval with a commanding lead. At this point the election is his to lose.”
Danev sighed and glanced down to the street some thirty meters below. Bulletins and pamphlets completely saturated the city, and nearly all were painted cover to cover with support proclamations for the Industrialists. Simon Chaval had Vaschberg firmly under his thumb. The local papers hadn’t run a single disparaging article about him in weeks. They were little more than thinly veiled campaign flyers, and sales were better than ever.
“If you’re that worried about being shut down, you could move,” Aram suggested. “This property’s worth a small fortune.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Danev said a bit too loudly, then bit his lip and turned. “Not yet, anyway.”
Aram slid out of the darkness. He wore his usual black pants and long-sleeved, collared shirt despite the lingering mugginess. His dark brown hair was cut military short, and his gray eyes were both hollow and pale. If not for the fact smiles rarely brightened his face, his tall, muscular frame would have made for an excellent doorman for the
Pampered Goddess
’s female clientele. Instead Danev typically kept him out of sight, which is what the man preferred anyway.
“So what are you going to do?” Aram asked. “I know you don’t want to support Janel, either.”
No, he most certainly did not. It was an impossible situation, really. In his six-year term, President Janel had done nothing to stem the growing and vicious anti-magi sentiment festering all across the country, especially here out west. He had, in fact, managed to do almost the exact opposite. His campaign of “moderation and discipline” had resulted in a term of stagnation and outright inaction. As the first torbo president in Arkadian history, Janel was a historical figure from the moment he had taken office, but his weak coalition government hadn’t managed to please anyone in the long term. Arkadia was the closest it had ever been to civil war.
“Janel is moderate and passive, and right now people want an active extremist,” Danev muttered eventually. “I doubt his party will keep a quarter of their seats in Parliament.”
“You don’t really think Marose has a chance?”
He snorted. “She’ll be lucky to get ten seats. The Enclave will support her, but I have the feeling a lot of magi won’t even turn out to vote this time.”
Aram raised an eyebrow. “Including you?”
“She’ll get my vote. I did graduate with her, you know.” Danev raised an eyebrow at the other man. “Why the sudden interest, anyway?”
“I needed to know if you were planning to pack up so I could talk you out of it,” Aram said. “Business is still good, after all.”
“And you don’t like to run.”
The bodyguard’s face might have twitched slightly, but it was hard to tell in the dim light. “No.”
Danev smiled. Either way, Aram was probably right. Regardless of how bad Vaschberg had gotten, the
Pampered Goddess
continued to do well. It had been a fixture in this town for almost twenty years now, and the services he provided were still unique.
He was an illusionist, a mage specialized in distorting the perceptions of others. In the case of his business, it took the form of bringing erotic fantasies to life. Back in his university days at Valmeri, illusion had been a heavily disparaged discipline—and it still was in most academic circles—but unlike most of his peers he had taken his weaving talents beyond the church or university and moved into the private sector.
His critics liked to label the
Pampered Goddess
as a brothel, but it was far more than a seedy bordello. It catered to upper class, independent wealthy women rather than the boorish masses of inebriated young men or even the hobbyist older male crowd. It was also, he liked to remind puritans, not technically a brothel. The women who came in were treated to his best romantic illusions, but in the end it was all just a fantasy. Without the risk of disease, pregnancy, or even peer judgment, the
Goddess
had become legendary only months after it opened.
It had made him a wealthy man, even if business had been slowly decreasing over the past few years. He could easily move anywhere in the world and not look back, and in truth the
Goddess
was only one of his many business ventures these days. He liked to stay informed on politics and the economy, and his own private network of contacts had brought in more drakes than “legitimate” business for some time. He could move and keep all of that intact, but that wasn’t his style. He liked to be in the game, as the saying went, and Vaschberg was close to the center of the board.
And the truth was that he didn’t like to run, either.
“I probably shouldn’t complain so much,” Danev commented after another long drag from his cigar. “I doubt there’s another mage in the country who has gained as much from the Dusties as I have.”
“Because you aren’t scared of trains?”
He chuckled. “Because I understand how they’ve changed the world. Can you imagine trying to keep in contact with our people without the telegraph?”
Aram shrugged. “Sending stones work just as well. Better, for the most part.”
“They also cost a fortune. Have you seen the price of varium crystals recently?”
“So instead we pillage the Fane right along with Chaval.”
“That’s hardly what I meant.”
“Maybe not,” Aram said softly, “but it’s the price and you know it.”
Danev pursed his lips. He didn’t consider himself much of a holy man, especially for a mage, but he understood the danger that Chaval and Steamworks represented as well as anyone. The Fane was suffering, and it went beyond the morning smog and perpetual ash on the breeze. The damage was subtle, but he could feel it every time he wove a spell. It was getting harder and harder to draw enough power to maintain his illusions, almost as if the Fane was trying to starve him out. His magi employees that did most of the work these days were starting to complain about it, and as a rule their skills and senses were considerably less attuned than his. As factories supplanted living things, bit by bit it felt like the Fane was starting to recede. Eventually, maybe in his lifetime, it would be gone, and he didn’t want to know what would happen then.
“We’re staying, one way or another,” he murmured after a few moments. “All is not lost. Not yet.”
Aram followed his gaze to the streets below. “It’s only a matter of time before the Dusties turn on you.”
“Well, that’s why I have you here.”
“I’m serious.”
“So was I,” Danev said flatly, then sighed. “I need to go over some client lists before it gets too late. Come on.”
He popped his white hat back on and headed downstairs, Aram silently in tow. Before they reached his office, one of his attendants nervously flagged him down.
“Mr. Danev, sir, there’s a woman here who wants to speak with you.”
“Client?”
“No, sir. She’s never been here before, and she has a man with her.”
“Perhaps he didn’t read the sign,” Aram grunted.
“She claims you knew her mother, Tara DeShane,” the attendant said.
Danev froze. “Tara…”
Aram cocked an eyebrow. “Is that who I think it is?”
“Send her in, Emily,” Danev instructed.
The woman nodded and quickly left. Aram maintained his expectant stare.
“Ghost from the past?” the bodyguard pressed.
“You could say that,” Danev murmured as the memories slowly trudged to the surface. “Goddess, I haven’t seen Tara since…well, since long before I opened this place.”
“Curious,” Aram replied neutrally. “I’ll stay close just in case.”
A second later he vanished, but Danev wasn’t really paying attention. Tara DeShane…his thoughts flickered back to Valmeri, to a time in his life when everything had seemed so perfect and simple. Then it had all shattered around them, and he had spent every day since trying to tiptoe around the pieces.