NINE
Benedict stumbled into his apartment just before dawn. He could already see the sky lightening and hear birdsong, reminding him just how long his day—and his night—had been.
Once the door was shut, he ripped off the cuffs and the shirt collar, along with the bow tie, that had served as his uniform for the night. He was vaguely disgusted—he couldn’t believe his aunt had decided on such skimpy uniforms for her staff.
Servants. Serfs. Slaves. Whatever they were. He didn’t understand what she was trying to achieve with Saveur. He’d assumed it was a front for a brothel, that Shakes and Sassa and the others were, well, prostitues, but Shakes had told him that was absolutely not the case. They caroused and canoodled with the customers, but they didn’t do anything beyond teasing touches and flirty conversation. Most of that was an act to sell more food and drink.
Benedict didn’t understand why anyone would want that in their dining experience. He certainly didn’t understand the people who came back time and again.
Then again, he was finding he didn’t understand much at all about the world. He didn’t understand the patrons who had laughed and invited him to drink; he didn’t understand the ones who called him sugar or sweetie . And he didn’t understand the appreciative looks some of them had given him.
Beyond Saveur, he didn’t understand his aunt’s world at all—mobsters like Vito, who threatened him; Farq, who couldn’t read; Oz, who was a slave but hadn’t run away the second Aunt Belladonna was dead. Oz, who was so helpful.
Oz, who had been looking at him so strangely all night.
He paused, peering at himself in the hallway mirror. Glowing yellow eyes met his gaze, the bright green of his forelocks and his skin contrasting with his dark stripes.
He supposed he might be considered attractive. Some of the patrons had certainly told him so. He’d never really stopped to think about it. Monks didn’t need to be attractive. Physical beauty was fleeting, although it was certainly a gift from the higher powers. More important was a beautiful spirit, which was something the brothers were trying to cultivate through a frugal, simple life of prayer. True beauty existed in the purity of the soul, which would shine through the physical body and last forever, even after the body had grown twisted and gnarled with age, like a tree.
Still, Benedict supposed it didn’t hurt to be beautiful in body—it had certainly helped as he’d talked to the patrons tonight. They had been moody and upset, but they’d cheered upon the arrival of alcohol, along with apologies—and, as many of them had remarked, a “nice package.”
He discarded the comment as he discarded his clothes and stepped into the shower to wash away the memories of lingering touches. Some of the patrons had made his skin crawl; others, he’d tingled with. He’d never been touched so much in his life, and never with such latent intent. Nobody had gone beyond laying a hand on his forearm, but he wondered what the other hosts had to put up with.
The more he saw of his aunt’s world, the less he liked it.
He was thankful to Oz for helping him navigate it. He smiled as he scrubbed down, thinking of the bartender with his big, brown eyes. He was curt and blunt, yet underneath, there was something soft and almost shy about him. He knew what he was doing, but he was also wary of trampling on Benedict’s toes.
Most of all, he was kind. He’d told Benedict he didn’t need help tonight, but he clearly had. And even though he was behind and the list of drinks had been long, he’d been patient with Benedict, letting him help as best he could. Mostly, that had been running drinks to various tables and apologizing for the wait, but by the end of the night, Benedict had been behind the bar, learning how to mix an Uvian drink. It wasn’t something Saveur served often, but Oz had still taken the time to show him.
He tingled as he thought about it, although that might have been the buzzy citrus soap he’d found in his aunt’s apartment. He hadn’t had time to clean things out or get new stuff—not that he’d know what to buy. The brothers made their own soap, which was rough. Showering was not meant to be luxurious—it was a means to an end. Here, with the constant warm water and delicious-smelling soap, Benedict felt like he could get lost in the experience, maybe for hours.
Truly, Kateria was full of temptations.
Maybe he’d get his own soap—something less decadent. Maybe he’d ask Oz what he used. Maybe he’d ask Oz to take him to a store where one could buy such things. Maybe Oz could help him …
He sighed. Truth was, he needed help with everything , but it wasn’t fair of him to ask Oz for more. Even if Oz was kind, even if he was helpful, surely Benedict was in the wrong for asking more of him.
He felt that way especially when he remembered Oz was a slave. Was Oz helping him because he was truly kind, or was he helping because he felt obligated ? There was a difference, Benedict knew, and as much as he wanted to think Oz was helping him because he was a good, kind, wonderful soul, part of him knew Oz was only helping because he felt like he had to.
He wondered if his aunt had ever threatened her slaves. If she’d done things to make them fear her.
With a sigh, he cut the water and stepped out of the shower. He wrapped himself in a sinfully fluffy towel, then padded to the bedroom.
He changed into a long nightshirt—one of the few things he’d brought with him from the abbey—and collapsed onto the bed with a sigh. He didn’t bother to draw the blinds, instead staring up at the ceiling, watching the lights from passing vehicles drive across the expanse, slowly fading into the morning light as the sun broke the horizon.
Finally, he blinked from whatever reverie he’d had, rolling onto his side and tugging at the covers. He needed to sleep. He had another long day ahead of him—and the clock was still ticking on Vito’s threat.
It was nearly noon when he made it to the office. He’d stopped at a café along the way and picked up two coffees. He’d tried to remember what Oz had ordered at the coffee shop they’d visited yesterday, but the menu in this one had seemed completely foreign and strange to him. He could only hope it was close.
He trudged up the stairs to the office and unlocked it, finding it in the exact state of chaos they’d left it last night. His shoulders sank; part of him had been hoping for a miracle, that the office would be clean and the information he needed would be sitting front and center on his desk.
He supposed he’d have to keep praying, although he had doubts that God would assist him in running a criminal empire. Really. What would Abbot Bartholomew say if he could see Benedict now?
Footsteps on the stairs made him turn, and he found Oz at the top of the stairwell, rubbing his eyes with one hand, and holding two coffees in his other two. “Morning,” the Vetruvian yawned.
“Afternoon,” Benedict said, and they stared at each other for a moment.
“Guess we need to talk about who will get coffee,” Oz said, then trundled by him into the mess of paper. “Although I can’t say I don’t feel like I need two coffees. Or maybe four.”
“It was a late night,” Benedict agreed, and Oz gave him a kind of quizzical look.
“Sure,” the Vetruvian said at length, setting the coffees he was carrying on the desk near a precariously balanced pile of paper. “Let’s recap: did you find anything yesterday?”
“Just that IOU to Mugsly von Baron,” Benedict reported, and Oz barked a laugh.
“Still can’t believe La Chef owed that guy.”
Benedict simply stared at him until his laughter subsided and his expression soured. “I guess it makes sense. Von Baron brought in Andrew.”
“Andrew?”
Oz waved a hand. “Some human we had on staff for a while. He ran off with a Rurarkian slave trader, oh, … gotta be getting close to a year ago now.” He paused, frowning. “Not long before La Chef was murdered, actually.”
Benedict winced, and Oz grimaced. “Sorry.”
Benedict shook his head. “No,” he said, “it’s fine. She was … murdered.”
The grimace didn’t leave Oz’s face, even as he said, “It’s a hazard of her line of work.”
“Yes,” Benedict agreed, thinking about Vito’s unspoken threat. Benedict didn’t know what the mobster planned to do, not really, but it was there. If Benedict didn’t settle this debt, something bad was going to happen. He looked up from his coffee cup. “Did you find anything?”
Oz shook his head. “Nah. I’d say we should ask Gwuill?—”
“Sorry, who?”
“Gwuill. Your aunt’s accountant.”
“Oh.”
Oz considered him, then said, “But I’ve got a sneaking suspicion this isn’t on the books.”
Benedict drew a slow breath. He’d been worried about that. If his aunt had had a falling out with Vito, she might not have wanted her dealings with him to be public knowledge. He glanced around the office. “Do you think she even has records then?”
“Yes,” Oz replied instantly. “I’m just wondering if maybe … they’re not here?”
“Not here?” Benedict let the drawer of the filing cabinet he was searching slide shut. “What do you mean?”
Oz gave him a kind of half shrug. “I mean, what if they’re … somewhere else?”
“Like where?”
There was a moment of silence as the two of them gazed solemnly at each other. “Maybe,” Oz started, and Benedict sucked in a breath.
“Her home.”