“Yes.” Saiman seemed a bit taken aback.
Rene’s rapier probably functioned similarly to Slayer. My saber smoked in the presence of undead and liquefied undead tissue. If I left it in the undead body, it also absorbed the liquefied flesh. Unfortunately, I rarely had a chance to leave it in the body long enough, and as a result, Slayer turned thin and brittle after too much fighting, and I had to feed it. I would bet a good portion of my salary that Rene had to replenish her rapier as well.
We rounded the bend, climbed a narrow staircase, and stepped into a different world. The floor was Italian tile, rust and sand, laid in an elaborate pattern of small and large checkers. Light peach walls offered narrow niches on the right, filled with spires of bamboo in heavy ceramic pots. On the left, tall arches cut the wall, each blocked by a heavy rust curtain. Ornate feylanterns, now dull in the absence of magic, decorated the space between each arch. A dozen fans slowly rotated on the ceiling, their lamps spilling soothing light onto the hallway.
The steady hum of a gathering crowd filtered through the curtains. We were on the third floor.
The magic hit, choking the electricity. The lamps died a blinking death. The fans slowed to a lazy stop and the twisted glass tubes of feylanterns ignited along the wall, tinting the hallway with their pale blue radiance.
A deep, throaty bellow ripped through the white noise of the crowd, a hoarse, inhuman sound of fear, rage, and pain rolled into one. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck rose. Saiman watched me for a reaction. His expression had a smug look to it.
I ignored the noise. “Where are we going?”
“To the VIP observation deck. If you recall, I mentioned my need for your professional opinion. The members of the team you are to evaluate typically loiter there before the fight.”
“Which team would that be?” I asked, recalling Derek’s note tucked away in my left wrist guard. Give the note to Livie of the Reaper team . . .
“The Reapers.”
Figured.
CHAPTER 8
THE SEMICIRCULAR OBSERVATION DECK WAS BARELY a third full. Most of the light came from the clusters of candles burning on the small, round tables. Beyond the tables, a crescent-shaped floor-to-ceiling window offered a view of the parking lot and the city steeped in darkness.
As I strode next to Saiman to the table by the window, I catalogued the patrons. Sixteen people total, three bodyguards, four women, two dark-haired, but none looked like a fighter.
My gaze slid to a man two tables over, and I felt a light jolt, like a live wire shocking my arm. He was large, probably close to six feet, and dressed in supple gray leather, most of it hidden by a coarse plain cloak. Long dark hair fell down his shoulders.
His gaze fastened on me and wouldn’t let go. Power coursed through his light blue eyes. He sat easy, his manner relaxed and cordial. If you accidentally stepped on his foot, he might be gracious and apologize for getting in your way. But there was something about him that communicated power and the potential for incredible violence. He knew with absolute certainty that he could kill every person in the room in seconds, and that knowledge far surpassed the need to prove it.
The liquid in his glass was clear. Vodka or water? Water meant somebody who wished to remain sober, and therefore posed a bigger threat.
Saiman held out a chair, expecting me to sit in it, which would put my back to the man. “The other chair,” I murmured. The man still stared at me.
“I’m sorry?”
“The other chair.”
Saiman smoothly switched to the opposite side of the table and pulled out the other chair. I sat. Saiman sat, too.
A waiter glided up, obscuring my view. Saiman ordered cognac. “And the lady?” the waiter inquired. Saiman opened his mouth.
“Water, no ice,” I said.
Saiman clamped his mouth shut. The waiter flittered away, revealing the dark-haired man, who had pivoted subtly so he could watch us. He looked at me as if he was searching for something in my face. I broadcasted “bodyguard” loud and clear.
“There’s no need to play my bodyguard,” Saiman assured me.
“There’s no need to play my date.” It was a matter of principle. If somebody sniped Saiman while I sat two feet away, I would have to pack up my knives and take up farming instead.
“I can’t help it. You’re simply stunning.”
“Is this the part where I swoon?”
The man rose and headed toward us. Six-two at least. I didn’t like the way he moved, smooth, gliding easily on liquid joints. A swordsman. An exceptional swordsman, to move with such grace considering his size. Tall, supple, deadly.
Saiman sighed. “At the risk of sounding crude, wooing you is like playing basketball with a porcupine. No compliment goes unpunished.”
“Then stop complimenting.”
A young red-haired man entered the observation deck and briskly crossed the floor. The swordsman halted in midstep. The young man approached, said something softly, and stepped to the side, treating the man with the deference given to a senior officer. The swordsman glanced at me one last time and walked away.
Saiman chuckled.
“I don’t see the humor in it.”
The waiter delivered our drinks: my water in a flute and Saiman’s cognac in a heavy cut-crystal glass. Saiman cupped the bowl of his glass in his palm to warm the dark amber liquid, and held it close, letting the aroma rise to his face.
“Male attention is to be expected. You’re a captivating woman. Edgy. Fascinating. And there are certain advantages to being seen in my company. I’m attractive, successful, and respected. And very rich. My reputation in this particular venue is beyond reproach. Your beauty and my position create an air of allure. I think you’ll discover that men here will find you very desirable. We could be a devastating duo . . .”
I flexed my wrist, popped a silver needle into my palm, and offered it to him.
“What’s this?”
“A needle.”
“What should I do with it?”
He’d walked right into it. Too easy. “Please use it to pop your head. It’s obscuring my view of the room.”
The doors of the observation deck opened and two men entered. The one on the left towered over his buddy. Tall, large, his hair cropped so close it was merely stubble on his large scalp, he held himself ramrod straight. He wore black pants, huge combat boots, and nothing else. Twisted swirls of tribal tattoos, precise and coal black as if painted in pitch, spiraled up his arms, stained his chest, and climbed up his back over his neck. A lot of elaborate ink. Interesting that it would all be the same color.
Beside him walked a man with hair so blond, it resembled a lemon. Cut even with the corner of his jaw, it flared around his narrow face in a disorganized mess. It was an odd haircut for a man but he somehow pulled it off without looking too feminine.
“And here they are.” Saiman leaned back casually.
“Reapers?” I murmured.
“Yes. The dark brute uses the stage name ‘Cesare.’ The blond is Mart.”
“What are their real names?” If anyone knew, Saiman would.
“I have no idea.” Saiman sipped his cognac. “And that bothers me.”
The Reapers zeroed in on our table.
“Anything in particular I’m looking for?”
