Chapter 40 Seeing Red
Seeing Red
Ronan
As much as I hated all of my old clothes, I knew I needed to look the part if I was going to be collecting back payments tonight, so I spent the afternoon shopping for something that sat somewhere between my old and new aesthetics—faded jeans that had been through one too many washes didn’t exactly scream “intimidation.”
The bell chimed above the store, a sound I’d known since I was old enough to walk from coming here so often with my dad.
The place hadn’t changed at all, a fact more comforting than I’d thought it would be.
Dark wood shelves lined the walls, bolts of fabric stacked high. The air smelled faintly of steam, starch, and leather. A single rack held finished suits wrapped in garment bags, while mirrors flanked a raised, scuffed platform.
I took two steps inside before a voice cut through the quiet.
“You got fat.”
Ah, good ol’ Mori.
The old tailor emerged from behind a curtain with a tape measure slung around his neck, thick arms crossed over his chest. His hair was grayer than I remembered, his horns a little duller, but his eyes were the same, already stripping me down to bone and posture.
I snorted. “Yeah, maybe. I need something for tonight.”
“Course you do,” he muttered, already moving. “Ravaric forbid any of the men in your family ever give me a heads up.”
He didn’t ask what it was for, or where I’d been all this time. Probably because he either already knew, knew better than to ask, or simply just didn’t care. He just grabbed the tape and stepped into my space without any hesitation, looping it around my shoulders, my chest, my waist.
“No silk,” I said, wondering if he still remembered what I used to order. “And no patterns.”
That earned me a grunt of approval.
“I need something black,” I added. “But not funeral black.”
Mori scoffed, his face contorting in disgust. “You think I’d dress you like a vamp?”
I swallowed back the surge of anger at even the mention of vampires. Mori noticed, huffing as he gave my shoulder an uncharacteristic squeeze before disappearing into the back.
He returned moments later with a suit bag, unzipping it with a practiced flick. Inside was a black suit, cut clean and sharp, the fabric matte. Understated and deadly.
He held it up against me, eyes narrowing. “Good,” he said. “It’ll distract people from that stupid beard.”
I slipped the jacket on and glanced at my reflection. The corner of my mouth lifted.
“She likes it,” I said.
Mori rolled his eyes as he adjusted the sleeves, tugged once at the lapel, then stepped back. “I’ll have it finished in an hour.”
I raised a brow. “That quick?”
He met my gaze evenly. “I’ve been doing this for longer than you’ve been disappointing your father.”
Ouch. But fair.
As he turned away, his voice softened, just a fraction. “Next time I see you in here better be for a wedding tux.”
The bell chimed again as he disappeared into the back. I swallowed and lingered in front of the mirror a moment longer, imagining Sage in witch’s green at my side.
* * *
My next stop was the barber’s for a long overdue trim and to clean up my beard, and by the time I got home, the suit was already waiting for me, hung on the hook behind the door in my room.
I unzipped the garment bag, the fabric drinking in the dying light of the sunset filtering through my windows.
Mori’s work was impeccable, as always. The fabric was smooth yet thick beneath my fingers. Armor made of wool, a shell stitched to perfection.
He’d included a white dress shirt, but as I reached to grab it, I paused. Maybe it wasn’t a flashy tiger print, but it still felt too much like the old me.
I left my T-shirt on instead.
As much as I’d filled out, or gotten “fat,” my old belts still fit, and I pulled out my accessories drawer to grab one.
I scanned the contents, looking first at all of the jewelry I used to wear.
Gaudy gold chains and diamond studs for pierced ears long since closed, heavy rings that were just as much about their cost as they were about the damage they could inflict in a fight.
With a disgusted scoff, I grabbed a black belt and then paused at the titanium Deveraux watch my dad had gotten me for my eighteenth birthday.
I hadn’t worn it much, preferring the flashier Meridian back when I’d wanted to make a statement.
But I wasn’t twenty anymore, chock full of hormones and flashing my colors like a bird with something to prove.
My power, my status… I wanted it to whisper. To go undetected by those who weren’t in my path, keeping them safe and happily ignorant of the violence that kept Ignareth running beneath the neon lights and perfumed skin.
A black sedan with tinted windows was waiting for me outside the house, a grunt I didn’t know holding the door open for me.
“Ripped Lace,” I said, sliding into the back seat.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, shutting me in.
The car was a vacuum for noise, so quiet it was unsettling. The chaotic noise of the city completely blocked as we drove down streets I knew as well as the freckles I’d already mapped on Sage’s cheeks.
Even shifting in my seat produced no noise.
“Can you turn on the radio or something?” I asked.
He cleared his throat nervously. “Is there anything in particular you want to listen to?”
“Anything but jazz,” I said with a sigh, looking out the window.
He tuned into a pop station, the bubblegum melodies and lyrics so at odds with the task that lay ahead of me.
Magiks from all over Lundaria prowled the Grand Circle like werewolves under the full moon, in search of easy entertainment like prey in the night.
It was almost laughable that anyone came to Ignareth thinking they could beat this city-state.
Every shiny distraction was a trap designed to lure them in, chew them up, and spit them out.
And my family was one of the few that helped make sure that machine kept running, the black of our suits hiding the oil that would inevitably spill in the process.
* * *
Ripped Lace had an unassuming facade—a heavy, red door, a velvet rope, two potted palms and a single bouncer, his muscles straining through the seams of his polyester shirt.
It wasn’t meant to pull you in off the street. This was a club you had to already know about, a destination for those looking for something a little more sophisticated and exclusive.
The car stopped right in front, and the grunt ran out to open the door for me. The sound came back all at once, the smell of the desert, sex, and money hitting me like a tidal wave of sin.
I straightened my jacket as I stood, running my fingers through my freshly cut hair as I nodded to the bouncer, and he let me in immediately, bowing at the waist.
The heady mix of sweet omega perfume that assaulted me upon entry was thick, settling on my skin like a blanket of pheromones, and the elf hostess smiled widely as she saw me.
“Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation?”
She must have been new to Ignareth, otherwise she would have clocked who, or rather what, I was the second she saw me. “I do not, but I’m sure you’ve been expecting me. I’m here to see Kuroha.”
Her eyes widened, cheeks turning pink as she realized her mistake. Not too new, then. “A-apologies, sir. I think she’s in a meeting right now. Would you mind waiting at the bar?”
I shook my head. I could actually use a drink to brace myself for what was coming. “Not at all.”
She plastered another smile on her face, but this one didn’t meet her eyes.
I followed her through dark hallway which opened up to a vast lounge bathed in low light.
Brocade drapes framed private alcoves like half-closed mouths, and black marble tables gleamed beneath flickering candlelight.
The bar itself was a slab of obsidian veined with gold, bottles backlit to make their contents glow in deep reds and smoky ambers.
Soft music pulsed through the room, while omegas moved between patrons with perfected grace, adorned in expensive fabrics. It wasn’t loud or frantic like most clubs. Ripped Lace was indulgent, expensive in the way that suggested everything here came with a price paid behind closed doors.
I sat down at the stool, taking out a roll of vaporleaf.
“Appletini,” I said to the bartender, lighting it and taking a drag.
He got to work at once, his expression blank, when I felt an unseen hand coast along my back, the seat at my right now filled by a merfolk omega in a gold, backless gown.
Her coral red hair was draped elegantly over one shoulder, and manicured nails extended towards me, waiting for me to take them in my hand.
“Well, you must be new, because I certainly would remember—”
“Save it,” I said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I’m not here for you.”
When she flinched, a ghost of a whimper sounding from her throat, I realized what a dick I must have sounded like. “Sorry. What I mean is, I’m here for business, not pleasure.”
“Oh, I’m aware,” she replied, quirking an eyebrow as the bartender slid the green cocktail towards me with a small bow. “Hey Koji, can I get one of those too?”
“Coming right up, Nerine.”
I took a sip, angry that it actually tasted really good. It’d be a shame to shut down a place that actually made a decent drink.
“Kuroha’s been expecting someone to show up,” she said.
I let out a dark chuckle. “I’m sure she has been. And what, you’re some sort of distraction? A peace offering to delay my collection?”
“Well, that was Plan A. But seeing as how you’re somehow immune to my charms, I suppose I’ll have to go with Plan B.”
Nerine received her drink, and took a small sip. “Hmm, a little too sweet for my taste.”
I ignored her assessment of my favorite cocktail. “Which would be?”
“To tell you the truth.”
“The truth, or an excuse?”
Her eyes widened in sincerity, and she placed her hand on her chest. “The truth, I swear to Cethelyne.”