Chapter 24 Lonari
LONARI
Gur’s night tastes like metal and burnt sugar.
It seeps into your mouth when you breathe too deep, rides the back of your throat like a bad decision.
The Defrocked Nun glitters behind me—music thumping soft through the walls, lights pretending this planet isn’t built on knives.
Outside, the air is cooler, industrial, laced with exhaust from dock traffic and the faint tang of ozone from shield grids.
Jordan’s invitation sits in my mind like a splinter.
A Coalition official requests a private meeting to offer protection.
Protection. On Gur. That’s like a shark offering you a life vest.
I don’t tell Jordan to sleep. I don’t tell her to relax.
She’d spit in my face if I tried—and she’d be right.
Instead I tell her, “Don’t move without eyes on you,” and she gives me that look that says I’m not a child, and I give her my own look that says No, you’re a matchstick in a room full of fuel.
Then I leave.
Not because I want distance.
Because I want answers.
Because if someone’s dangling “protection” in front of her, they’re trying to pull her out of my orbit. And that means they’ve noticed she’s become leverage.
Which means the Nine is paying attention.
I take a back route through the service corridors, away from the casino cameras, away from the polished floors.
This is the Nun’s spine—raw concrete, pipes sweating in the warm air, the smell of detergent fighting a losing war with old blood.
Two of my quiets fall in behind me without a word.
They move like shadows that learned discipline.
“Who’s the liaison?” I ask.
One of them, Sable—thin Fratvoyan with eyes like wet stones—hands me a data-slate. “Name on the header is Councilor Veyl Tarsen. Coalition protectorate office. Claims neutral jurisdiction.”
“Claims,” I repeat, amused without humor.
The other, Rook, says, “He requested an off-site suite. Says he won’t step on Kaijen property.”
“Because he’s respectful,” I mutter.
Sable doesn’t smile. “Because he’s not stupid.”
Neither am I.
I flick the slate, pull up his security footage, and immediately know it’s wrong.
Not the face. The face is forgettable—too forgettable.
Slim, tidy hair, a grin that doesn’t reach the eyes.
But the walk… the walk tells truth. He steps like someone used to armored boots, weight distributed for speed.
Coalition officials don’t walk like soldiers unless they used to be soldiers. Or they’re pretending to be officials.
“Tail him,” I say.
Rook nods once. “Already in motion.”
Good.
I head for the maintenance lifts that dump out near the neutral suites—private rooms the Nun rents to outsiders who want to pretend they’re not doing business with criminals. The irony is thick enough to choke on.
As we move, my tongue keeps catching a phantom taste—smoke and grief. Dren’s warehouse. The Nine’s scorch mark on concrete. I can see it every time I blink.
I don’t let it rule me.
Anger is a tool. Not a driver.
We reach the service access and slip into the outer corridor of the neutral wing. The air changes here—less casino perfume, more sterile climate control. The walls are smoother. The lights dimmer. People think dim lights make their sins harder to see.
They’re wrong.
Rook murmurs, “Target entered Suite Twelve. He’s not alone.”
My scales lift slightly. “Who?”
Rook taps his earpiece, listening. “We’ve got eyes on the second. Kaijen. Captain Jasker.”
For a moment, the world narrows.
Jasker.
One of the men who swore loyalty in my council chamber with poison on his tongue and calculation behind his eyes. A captain who used to oversee tribute transfers—who knew the routes, the names, the timing. Who knew how to keep the Nine fed without anyone noticing the bite marks.
My jaw tightens.
“Of course it’s him,” I murmur.
Sable’s voice is quiet. “You want him taken now?”
I inhale. The corridor smells like antiseptic and fresh paint. It makes me want to break something.
“No,” I say.
Rook glances at me. “He’s in there with a Coalition liaison offering Jordan ‘protection.’ That’s not a social call.”
“I know,” I say.
I step closer to the suite door but stop short—just outside the security sensor’s range. I can feel the soft hum of its scan field against my scales like invisible fingertips.
“We don’t pounce,” I say. “We set a counter-trap.”
Sable tilts her head. “You’re letting it proceed.”
“I’m letting them think they have control,” I say. “People talk more when they think the world is theirs.”
Rook’s mouth curls slightly. “And we’re listening.”
“Exactly,” I say.
I pull my slate out and flick through my comm channels.
“Patch me to Ghostline,” I tell Sable.
She taps her own device. “Ghostline open.”
Ghostline is what we call the internal back-channel that doesn’t touch Kaijen’s main network. Old hardware, hardwired relays, physical encryption keys. The kind of system you can’t hack from a distance unless you’re in the wall with a screwdriver.
I trust it more than I trust my own blood some days.
“Get me eyes in Suite Twelve,” I say. “No alarms. No flicker. I want them comfortable.”
Sable nods. “We can piggyback off the room’s climate sensor and install a micro-lens in the vent.”
“Do it,” I say. “And I want audio.”
Rook says, “Quiet shooters?”
I glance down the corridor—two adjacent service hallways, one maintenance closet with an access grate, and a ceiling panel that opens into a crawlspace.
“Two,” I say. “No theatrics. If something goes sideways, I want them stopped before they touch Jordan.”
Rook nods and slips away, already moving.
I key another channel, the one Jordan is on.
Her voice comes through instantly, sharp. “Tell me you’re not doing something stupid.”
I exhale. Even through comms, she sounds like she’s braced for impact.
“I’m doing something smart,” I say.
“That’s subjective,” she shoots back.
“Suite Twelve,” I tell her. “A Coalition liaison is meeting Captain Jasker.”
A beat of silence. Then: “Jasker. Tribute guy.”
“Yes.”
Jordan’s breath hitches slightly, like she just mentally lined up a dozen ugly dots. “So the ‘protection’ offer is… bait.”
“Bait with teeth,” I say.
“What’s your play?” she asks.
I keep my voice calm. “You watch. You stay hidden. I want you seeing this on a secure feed, not in person.”
“Lonari—” Her tone tightens. “I’m not going to sit here like a—”
“Jordan,” I cut in, and my voice goes lower. Not harsh. Just immovable. “You told me you’re done wearing leashes. Good. Then don’t walk into one they’re holding open.”
Another pause. I can almost hear her grinding her teeth.
“Fine,” she says finally. “But if you get yourself killed, I’m going to be so pissed I’ll resurrect you just to yell at you.”
A rough laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Noted.”
The feed goes live five minutes later.
A little window blooms on my slate—grainy, vent-cam angle. Suite Twelve looks like every neutral suite: plush seating, polished table, soft lighting designed to flatter liars. The air filters whisper. A decanter sits on the table like a prop in a play.
Councilor Veyl Tarsen sits relaxed, one ankle resting on a knee. Jasker sits opposite him, posture stiff, eyes scanning the room like he’s trying to decide which wall would make the best exit.
Good. Paranoia is a symptom of guilt.
Tarsen’s voice comes through the audio feed, smooth as oiled silk. “Captain. I appreciate you agreeing to meet privately.”
Jasker’s voice is rougher, impatient. “Skip the pleasantries. I’m not here for friends.”
“Of course,” Tarsen says. “You’re here for stability.”
Jasker scoffs. “I’m here for survival.”
Tarsen smiles like he’s been handed a gift. “Often the same thing.”
I stand in the corridor outside, back to the wall, listening. The lights hum overhead. My pulse is steady.
Jordan pings my comm. “I’m watching,” she says quietly. Her voice is filtered, coming from wherever she’s hiding. “I swear, if he mentions me like I’m merchandise—”
“He will,” I say softly. “That’s the point.”
Inside the suite, Tarsen leans forward. “You’re aware the Kaijen syndicate is… under new management.”
Jasker’s mouth tightens. “Acting management.”
Tarsen’s smile doesn’t change. “Lonari Kaijen is a bold choice. Suspending tribute to the Nine is… brave.”
“Brave,” Jasker repeats, bitter. “Or suicidal.”
Tarsen steeples his fingers. “And you disagree with his approach.”
Jasker hesitates. That hesitation is everything. It’s the sound of a man deciding which devil pays better.
Then he says, “Lonari is reckless. He’s letting an IHC civilian steer him.”
Jordan’s breath crackles in my ear. “Oh, screw you.”
I keep my voice low. “Let it play.”
Tarsen nods slowly. “Jordan James.”
Jasker spits the name like it tastes sour. “She’s poison. She broadcasts, she stirs, she drags attention. The Nine doesn’t tolerate attention.”
“And yet,” Tarsen says gently, “attention is already here. The question is who it lands on.”
Jasker’s eyes sharpen. “What are you offering?”
Tarsen spreads his hands, palms up. “Protection. For you. And for your people. Gur can be… unforgiving to those who lose favor.”
Jasker leans in slightly. “Define protection.”
Tarsen’s voice drops a fraction. “Amnesty. Territorial recognition. Supply contracts that don’t vanish overnight. A seat at certain tables.”
Jasker’s throat bobs. “In exchange for what?”
Tarsen’s smile grows. “In exchange for restoring stability.”
“Meaning?” Jasker presses.
Tarsen’s eyes gleam. “Meaning the destabilizing element is removed.”
Jordan’s voice in my comm is a tight whisper. “I’m going to crawl through this feed and punch him.”
I murmur back, “Hold.”
In Suite Twelve, Jasker exhales slowly. “You want Lonari gone.”
Tarsen’s expression stays mild. “Lonari is… difficult. But he is also Kaijen blood. Removing him violently would create chaos.”
Jasker’s gaze flickers. “So you want the human.”