Zander sits at the end of a table, cupping a copper mug between two hands.
Glaring at me.
He’s trying to stay calm, but his nostrils flare—a sure sign he is fuming, wondering how the hell I got here.
My heart skitters as I set my jaw with stubbornness. I look forward to that argument later. Zander doesn’t scare me anymore.
I scan the room. Elisaf is nearby, standing at the bar, chatting up the bartender. I don’t see Abarrane. She’s likely in an alleyway, torturing someone for information about Drakon and Iago. Either way, they’ve split up, which is a smart strategy.
Several curious heads have turned to regard me, leering men holding out hope for a female body under them tonight, willingly or not. Opportunists pondering what my belongings might be worth. I’ve been around enough of this type to know that for every saint in this room, there are five sinners, and I’m drawing too much attention by standing here.
Somewhere in a corner, by a wall, would be best. “Come on, this way.” Pan trails me as I weave through the crowd to the end of a long table, the bottoms of our boots peeling away from the sticky wooden plank floor with each step. As contrary as this place is to Cirilea and its gilded towers and copper tubs, it feels more familiar to what I spent many years of my life surrounded by—the crooked crowd and the squalor.
Pan and I have just seated ourselves when two men farther down slide along their benches toward us. They might pass for twins—both as wide as they are tall—though the one next to Pan is decades older, only a few sparse hairs left on his head. Still, they’re built like they could pull an oxcart.
“What’s a pretty lass like you doin’ showin’ up here all alone?” The older one grins, exposing a mouth that’s missing more teeth than it’s kept. He’s too rough-looking to be elven, yet he doesn’t have an ear cuff to mark him as otherwise.
Poised and polite might have worked for the lady at the door, but it won’t help me here. “Who says I’m alone?”
“He don’t count.” He throws a thumb at Pan, sloshing his beer across the lacquered wooden table. “So, you got an invisible mate?”
“Oh no, he’s very visible.” And watching from three rows over. Zander’s not making a move, though. Either he’s too angry that I showed up against his wishes, or he’s giving me a long leash to see how badly I’ll tangle myself up in it. “He’s looking for accommodations. The inn seems to be full.”
“Not gonna find much ’round here tonight.” The man beside me leans closer, his hairy forearm brushing against me. He smells of raw onions and plaque, his breath so foul, I’m forced to shift away. “But I know a place not too far, where I’m stayin’. They could probably squeeze you in. And I’m free for a give and take, to the right female.” He flicks at his ear, highlighting the missing cuff.
A mental image of Bexley and her Seacadorian captain hits me. That is the kind of “give and take” arrangement this guy is trying to sell me.
I meet Zander’s gaze. The bastard is smiling into his mug. He must be able to read the disgust in my pulse from all the way over there. I can almost hear his mocking. Let’s see how you get out of this one.
Elisaf has finally spotted me. His brow furrows as he watches this exchange unfold.
“As appealing as that offer is, I think I’ll pass. My mate doesn’t like to share.”
“Your loss.” The guy grumbles as he slides away, back the way he came.
I stifle my laugh, unable to manage any mortal speaking to me like that in Cirilea, or anywhere else.
The other man lingers. “Name’s Fearghal.”
“Hello, Fearghal.” He’s not someone I could fight off if I had to. I can’t tell if he’s going to be a problem yet. But I decide to use him to my advantage. “What do you know about those people out there?” I jerk my head toward the square. “What’d they do wrong?”
He glances around and then leans in. “I hear it’s ’cause they took that poison.”
I mock gasp. “I’ve heard about that. I wasn’t sure if it was real or rumor.”
“Oh, it’s real, and it’s got all your kind on edge, for good reason. Make sure you know the company you keep.” He gives Pan a pointed look.
“Me?” Pan squeaks. “I could never do somethin’ like that. She treats me better than anyone I’ve ever known, except maybe my ma. But even she used to smack me good sometimes for causin’ her trouble. Ro”—he falters, catching himself with a wide-eyed flash of panic—“she cares about mortals.”
Fearghal pats Pan’s shoulder with a heavy hand. “Well, then you are luckier than all those poor sods outside. Between us, their keepers probably deserved it, the way things work around here.” He chugs back a mouthful.
He’s not concerned about offending me. I can use that to my advantage. “You’re right, they probably did. And I doubt those people in the pillories deserve what’s happening to them.”
A spark of something stirs in his eyes. “Where you from?”
“Bellcross.”
His lips purse. He doesn’t believe me.