Chapter 13 Nes
Nes
Frustration bit into Nes as she picked at her nails and surveyed the floor of the Siren’s Hair.
Already, she could see the smug expression on Phineas’s face when she walked into his office, already hear his drawling Welcome back, my hound in her ears. Her imagination alone was nearly enough to make her turn around and abandon her whole plan.
The gambling den was packed. The bartender, dressed in Phineas’s choice feathered costume, didn’t seem bothered by the people crowding her station. The more people pushing against the polished rim of the bar, the bigger her smile got and the less her wary eyes drifted toward Nes.
The bartender wasn’t the only one watching her tonight. Plenty of patrons shifted their gaze to her until she sent their eyes skittering away with a glare. Still, no matter how many gazes she met head-on, the feeling of being watched seeped into her skin.
She hated being back here. She’d walked away, damn it. And now here she was, seemingly dragging herself back. She blamed Toran.
She almost didn’t recognize him when he stepped into the Siren’s Hair.
As she’d requested, he hadn’t worn his uniform.
Instead, he wore a pair of plain brown trousers and a loose white shirt with trim suspenders that cut up his stomach and chest, accentuating the muscles pinned beneath. A black cloak hung over his forearm.
She waited for him to spot her across the room, taking those few seconds he was unaware of her gaze to admire the shape of him.
Mikaud had been unbiasedly handsome, but Toran was different.
Maybe it was those pure eyes that drew her in, or maybe it was something she had yet to identify, but Toran was attractive in a soulful sort of way.
Before she could do something truly damning—like think her father was right about her finding someone to spend her life with—she flipped her hat, settling it atop her head until it sat snug.
Toran stepped up beside her, close enough that when his fingers twitched at his side, she felt his knuckles skim the back of her hand.
The touch was light, like the tickle of a dandelion under her nose, but as warm as bedsheets after a night well-slept.
Crossing her arms, she pursed her lips. “Are you fond of what you’re wearing?”
He glanced down at himself. “No. Why?”
She shrugged. “No reason.”
“Don’t start lying to me now.”
“Start? Oh, Captain, we’re well into the races.”
She beckoned him toward the kitchen and the storage closet inside, opening it to reveal the stairs leading down.
Toran moved to take the stairs, but she put a hand out, stopping him.
She refused to let her fingers curl against the hard warmth she felt under his shirt.
She’d made the mistake of getting attached once before, and Goddess knew that had not ended well.
She had no reason to believe Toran would be any different.
“Before we go,” she said, the shards of ice she slipped into each of her syllables reminders for herself as much as they were for him, “just remember—if I go down, I’m taking you with me.”
Their deal came first. Regardless of any illegalities she revealed to him down below.
He only raised a brow and gestured for her to go first. Good enough. She walked the steps in silence, his presence behind her like a second shadow.
Unlike the other day, the door at the bottom of the stairs was shut. Two identical swirls were carved into the wood, the lantern hanging over their heads revealing a deep red paint. The center of each swirl opened to reveal two green eyes.
“Oh, Nes,” Suri said from the other side of the door, genuine regret in her tone. “You know I can’t let you in without the passwords.”
Nes grinned. “Then it’s a good thing I have them, isn’t it?”
She wasn’t supposed to know the passwords. But despite being on the outside of Phineas’s operation, acquiring tonight’s passwords had been far easier than she’d anticipated.
“Eight moons.” She raised her brows at Suri, lifting her gaze to the depictions of the moon phases above the door. “A little on the nose tonight, don’t you think?”
Suri rolled her eyes. “I didn’t choose them.” Her gaze, as sharp as the tip of an arrow, turned to point at Toran. “Who’s your friend?”
“Not a friend,” she said.
“Something more?” Suri asked, her voice rising with interest.
She felt Toran behind her like the weight of the summer sun on her back. She remained facing the door. “Something less.”
Despite the door between them, Nes could still see how her friend jutted out her lower lip. A second later, the door swung open and she saw Suri’s pout for real. She stepped inside only for Suri to grab her arm and pull her close.
“But why?” Suri hissed, her eyes darting back to Toran. “He’s so handsome.”
“Hush,” she admonished. “He doesn’t need to know that. He’s enough of a pain in my ass as it is.”
Suri smiled conspiratorially at her.
“No,” she said, her voice flat. She wriggled out of Suri’s grip. “There are far more important things that require my attention.”
She expected the pout to return, but Suri’s face turned serious. “Phineas knows you stole from his distillery.”
Nes shrugged. “I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t think he’d find out.”
If she hadn’t hoped he’d find out. Because Phineas dogging her steps was something she knew how to handle.
“You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“The only kind I know how to play.”
“Good luck in there,” Suri said.
Thanks, she mouthed before gesturing to Toran to follow her around the corner.
A wall of sound loud enough to skip a heartbeat greeted her as she turned and stepped to the forefront of the fray. Stomping feet, screeching catcalls, clapping laughter, and the congruous plucking of five strong basses. But all that noise had nothing on the incredulity that rose in Toran’s voice.
“A brawlhouse?”
Toran stood at her side, every muscle strained beneath the clean sleeves of his button-down shirt, his suspenders stretched taut.
Damn. Suri was right. Even the dark cloak he’d thrown over his shoulders couldn’t hide his strength.
With his stiff posture and hands in fists, he looked no different than the men lining up for a fight.
At least he’d forgone his uniform and that massive sword. She’d fully expected him to show up decked out in all his pins and regalia. He’d surprised her by listening.
“Brawlhouses are illegal,” Toran said in her ear.
“Then this isn’t a brawlhouse.”
He scoffed. “Not a brawlhouse, my ass.”
She flicked her eyes to his rear. “I can neither confirm nor deny such a statement without seeing said ass.”
When Toran looked back over at her, he didn’t seem amused. Pity.
“Are you always this—”
“Charming?” she supplied. “Appealing?”
“Vexing.”
She frowned.
“If this isn’t a brawlhouse,” Toran said, “then what do you call those?” He gestured to the fighting pits.
There were eight of them—seven spreading in a circle around one in the center. Eight giant craters dug out of the ground, deep enough for the walls of dirt to reach high over your head and wide enough for two full-grown men to lie down toes to head, head to toes.
“Graves,” she said, throwing a bit of nonchalance on her tone.
“That’s exactly why the King made brawlhouses illegal.”
“People die every day from less exciting causes.” She idly tapped the tips of her fingers against her thumb as his words ran through her head. “Why do you say it like that?”
“Like what?”
She raised her shoulders and puffed up her cheeks. “Brawlhouse,” she croaked out in imitation.
Toran stared at her, the corner of his lips twitching. “I don’t sound like that.”
She shrugged. “Close enough.”
“You’re so far off you could be in Kehr.”
“Then go ahead. Say it again.”
Toran scowled but obliged her. “Why did you bring me to a brawlhouse?”
“See?” She flung a hand out, twirling it in front of his twisting mouth. “You did it again. What’s so wrong with a brawlhouse that you have to say it like you’re constipated?”
“I’m not saying it like I’m—” He cut off, his eyes snapping to the other patrons around them, as if only just realizing they weren’t alone. “Constipated,” he finished in a whisper.
She laughed. “Oh, Captain, you are not cut out for the Ditch.”
His gaze lingered on three men nearby, all larger and taller than Toran and sporting more blood and bruises than a corpse. “Is anyone?” he muttered under his breath.
“No,” she said firmly. “That’s why it’s called the Ditch. No one intends to fall in.”
“Except for you.”
She didn’t deny it. “Except for me.”
Toran didn’t seem to have a response for that. Which was just as well. She hadn’t come here to argue city injustices.
“It’s a busy night,” she said, eyes locking on Minot across the room. She watched as Minot scratched at his ear.
“Why does that matter?” Toran asked.
“It’s the whole reason we’re here.”
Toran crossed his arms over his chest. “And why are we here?”
“For information,” she said, looking away from Minot.
“Information? On the symbols? This doesn’t exactly look like a library.”
“And you don’t exactly look like a scholar.”
Toran huffed. “When you said you knew someone who might be able to decipher the symbols, I assumed you meant an academic of sorts. Someone with a knowledge of history.”
She pursed her lips. “Oh, he’s got knowledge. Probably more than anyone rightly should.”
Toran frowned at her.
But she ignored his unspoken question and turned to a boy on her right. He was a small thing, no more than eleven, but had a big voice. He called for and shouted out bets and sometimes taunted those who refused him until they begrudgingly pulled out a few gadots.
She waited for the boy to take a breath before holding up a fistful of gadots and telling him, “Ten on baldie to win.” She jutted her chin in the direction of the pit at the top of the circle, where a man with biceps as wide as his head roared to the gathering crowd.
Behind her, Toran’s eyes were hard and pained as he stared across the crowd. She followed his gaze to the bar. She knew that look. She’d seen it many times on magic users trying to quit. Addiction was a monster that so often came back for seconds.
She slid her elbow into the crook of his arm, and he jolted at the touch. He glanced down at her, confusion replacing the ache she’d seen in his eyes.
“Stay close,” she said.
He nodded, but she didn’t let go—didn’t shy away when his sleeve rose and the hair on his arm tickled the sensitive underside of her own.
“Name for the bet?” the boy asked her.
“Phineas.”
“Ten on Growlsabob for Phineas,” the boy repeated before turning and shouting for new bets.
“Why give a false name?” Toran said in her ear. It wasn’t a whisper, but it still made her shiver. Even grasping his arm, she hadn’t realized how close he’d gotten.
“Because my own name’s too precious,” she said. And she needed to give Phineas a reason to open his door for her. “Besides, no one gives their real name in here. You think his name is really Growlsabob?”
Toran watched the man still roaring in the pit. “It is fitting.”
“This way.”
She wove through the crowd toward her favorite viewing area.
The spot nearest the wall was always less crowded.
The pit farthest from the door had been dug a bit too close to the wall, making the floor surrounding the pit narrower on the one side.
Not many people chose to watch the fights from the thin strip of dirt—there was barely enough room to plant one’s feet—but she preferred it.
Standing there felt like teetering on the edge of death; not falling in, like conquering it.
Toran swung his head in the direction of the ledge. “I’m not going out there.”
“Why not? You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”
“No,” he said, “but if you’re going to force me to watch a brawlhouse fight sober, then I’d rather do it someplace I don’t run the risk of falling into the pit myself.”
Sober. That confirmed the ache she’d seen.
“The fights are better when you’re sober. Drunk you stand the chance of missing something.” She sniggered. “Like a rock to the head.”
She scooted closer to the ledge before leaning back against the wall and crossing one leg over the other. Toran, though reluctant, settled against the wall beside her.
She slid her hands into her pockets. One held Toran’s ring, the other those strange coins she’d picked up beside Mikaud’s body and in the Drowning Square.
She turned all three over, feeling their seams and ridges, while she cast her gaze out from beneath the brim of her hat.
Minot had disappeared. Likely tattling on her this very minute.
She squeezed the trinkets in her palms and smirked.
“Where’s his opponent?” Toran asked.
She tilted her head to watch as Growlsabob strutted around the pit. It was rare for one of Phineas’s dogs to display anything aside from conceit in a pit.
“I’m sure his opponent will appear soon.”
The show was about to start.
“But you already bet on him to win? Without knowing who he’s fighting?”
She tsked. “So many questions, Captain. Haven’t you been to a brawlhouse before?”
“I have no interest in such places.”
She pushed up off the wall. “If you want to get anything out of tonight, you better take the stick out of your ass.”
“And you should try to remember this is my mission.”
“Good luck finding the Witch without me.”
They glared at each other until the boy taking bets announced the fight would begin in two minutes. She turned away from Toran with a growl. She pressed her back against the wall. Toran shrugged up beside her.
“Why bet at all?” he asked. “You might have just thrown your money away.”
She eyed him. “I’m sure I did. Give me your cloak.”
“No.”
“Oh, come on. Just give it.”
“What for?”
She curled her shoulders into her neck. “I’m cold.”
“It’s far warmer down here than it was on the walk over. What’s the real reason?”
She held out her hands, palms up. “Don’t you trust me?”
He folded his arms over his chest. “Something tells me I should say no.”
She pouted. “I’m hurt.”
“Don’t be.”
“What about our deal?”
Toran’s eyes shifted from the pit to the fighter to the jeering crowd before finally landing back on her. “Right about now, I feel I should have added a bit about you not getting me killed into that agreement.”
She rolled her eyes. “Will you give me your cloak if I promise not to kill you?”
“Or get me killed?”
She nodded, tugging on the string that kept his black cloak closed over his broad chest. “Or get you killed.”
Toran shrugged off the cloak and folded the ends with care. He placed it gently in her outstretched arms. “Keep it safe for me.”
She pressed the mound of fabric against her chest, trying not to absorb the warmth that still radiated from it.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. You won’t die.” She stepped closer until they were toe to toe, placing a light hand on his chest. She shifted one foot toward his instep and smiled. “Well, I hope not.”
Tucking his cloak under her arm, she hooked her foot around the back of his ankle and shoved. Toran tripped on her foot and fell. She gave him a small triumphant wave as she watched him tumble into the pit.