by M. J. Scott
But when I woke, I was determined to see what I could find out. By the time I reached the fourth tavern, I was starting to think I was on a wild-goose chase. No one I questioned, or bullied—not even my usual sources—was prepared to admit knowing anything about a woman named Holly who might be involved in anything shady. And the few times I’d dropped even a hint of wanting information about a Beast, I killed any conversation stone dead and the men whose drinks I’d been buying had rapidly dispersed.
Maybe I was looking in the wrong places.
I’d started in Seven Harbors, scene of our infamous meeting, but the dark and dingy taverns and gaming hells of that borough didn’t strike me as her likely haunts. She wasn’t the young lady working in a shop she’d pretended to be, but I didn’t think she was a streetwalker or a bar doxy either.
So I’d worked my way toward Brightown until I’d fetched up at a slightly better class of tavern called the Goat and Thistle, where I’d finally been given a vaguely worded hint that I might have better luck at the Swallow’s Heart.
I knew the place. Big. Flashy. Catering to the young and fast set who weren’t quite stupid enough to delve into the Night World proper. Largely human clientele, though, it didn’t turn away Beasts or Fae. The Swallow was attached to the largest brothel in Brightown, the Dove’s Rest. I had, on the odd occasion, had to round up novices on leave from the depths of both the Swallow and the Dove—though generally the former if we caught wind of their adventures early enough—but I’d never actually spent time in the Swallow as a patron.
As I stepped through the door, I remembered why.
Those who paid for information or muscle had to have money to do so. And money, in Brightown and the upper ends—such as they were—of society in the Border boroughs, tended to flow around the theater halls and the taverns. Not to mention the brothels, which were favored by all four races and weren’t as dangerous as the Night World boroughs where the pleasures were more depraved.
Most Templars didn’t have a lot of money to throw around in places like this. Plus it wasn’t exactly a peaceful place to go for a pint or two . . . it was loud and crowded and flashy.
The place dripped gold and velvet and mirrors and sometimes all three in the same place. Throw in candles and crystal chandeliers and the place glittered like a whore’s hangover. And that was before you added all the customers, dressed in typical Brightown fashion. Gaudy for the women, and only slightly less so for the men.
I pulled off my coat—donned against the unseasonable rain—thankful I’d chosen a black jacket and trousers. Close enough to evening dress. Though I lacked the eye-searing waistcoat necessary to truly fit in. Of course, the tattoos on my hands would let anybody who was paying attention know what I was, but Templars weren’t monks and, out of uniform and obviously off duty, I shouldn’t cause anyone undue concern.
Doing what everyone was doing would improve my odds of blending in. Given that seemed to consist of drinking themselves into oblivion, I pushed my way to the bar and ordered a whiskey. Then I pretended to drink it while I surveyed the room.
The place was crowded but not too crowded. There was a steady stream of men, and the odd woman, coming in from the rear where the Swallow connected to the Dove. Overall, the crowd was largely human, as far as I could tell. There were a few Beast Kind in one corner of the room, but their blond heads meant they weren’t Favreaus. And they were not likely to be a good source of information when the questions came from a Templar.
Among the humans, numbers were divided evenly among women and men. The women were drinking as hard as the men, but, apart from the bold few who headed for the archway that led through to the Dove, most of the females in the room seemed to be focusing on a table in the far corner of the room where a young—maybe—man with messy dark hair and a rapidly emptying brandy decanter held court.
Whatever it was he was selling, the women were lapping it up, hanging on his every word, fluttering eyelashes and tugging their necklines lower. Not that Dark Hair was doing all that much to deter them. He smiled and flirted back, judging by the pleased expressions on the women’s faces. Still, he seemed to keep the flow moving steadily.
He’d just sent a plump redhead in a shiny yellow dress on her way when he looked toward the bar, caught me watching him, and frowned. Suddenly he looked far less young and far less pleasant.
I dropped my eyes, then looked behind me in case someone else was the object of his displeasure.
No such luck. When I looked again, he had vanished from his table. A minute later he appeared by my side.
“A little out of your way, aren’t you?” he asked with a chill to his voice.
This one was dangerous. I reached for my whiskey, using the movement to shift slightly so I had better access to the dagger and pistol on my hip. The dark-haired man was shorter than me by a few inches and more lightly built, but I had lost any illusion that smaller meant weaker very early in my novitiate when Father Cho had regularly pounded me into the mat in the weapons hall.
“What’s it to you?”
“That would depend on what you’re looking for,” the man said.
“Who says I’m looking for anything?” I didn’t think I’d be getting any information out of anyone so openly hostile, so best to move him along. Though the set of his jaw suggested he wouldn’t be all that amenable to being moved.
“I do,” said the man. “And I’m rarely wrong.”
I tipped the whiskey glass toward him, pretending a half-foxed salute. “Nice for you.”
His attention didn’t shift. He wasn’t buying my pose. “Not really. You won’t find what you’re looking for here.”
“No? They have decent whiskey and I’ve heard good things about the girls next door.”
“They aren’t who you’re looking for.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. “I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.”
“No. You’re the one. And I’m telling you to give it up before anyone gets hurt.”
“I’m not in the business of hurting people.”
His gaze dropped to my hands, one dark brow arching skeptically. “At least not the ones on your side. Go home, tin man. She—”
I put the glass down a little too hard. Whiskey sloshed over the edge. “She? I didn’t say anything about a woman.”
The green eyes blinked and I suddenly realized the man was half-drunk even if he wasn’t showing it.
“Buggering Veil’s eyes.” He shook himself like a man casting off a half-remembered dream. “Still. I’m telling you there’s nothing for you here.”
If he thought he was about to chase me off, he was wrong. For one thing, anybody so overtly wanting to warn me off only confirmed that I was on the right track. He might not reveal anything, but then again, maybe liquor would lead him to another blunder. At this point I would settle for any information at all. “No? Someone told me this was a good place for bird-watching.”
The man who’d suggested the Swallow had also muttered something about owls as well, which made no sense, but one can’t always be choosy about the bait when casting a wide net for unknown prey.
The green gaze went flat and sharp like a shard of bottle glass. “They told you wrong. Leave. There’s nothing but trouble for you here.”
I stared at him for a moment, assessing the threat. I didn’t want the attention a fight would bring. I had learned a little more. I was on the right path. But if the Swallow did have a connection with Holly, then maybe it was foolish to expect anyone here to talk about it. I needed to go elsewhere. Still in Brightown but not where my quarry actually nested, so to speak.
So I held up my hands, palms out, and nodded at Dark Hair. “All right, I’m going.” I pushed coins across to the bar. “Give him more brandy.”
HOLLY
By midmorning of my third day in St. Giles, the feeling of being recently trampled by a stampeding bull had receded somewhat. The day before, all I’d managed to do, other than sleep, was c
oax an orderly into fetching a street rat for me. I’d sent him off with a note for Reggie, telling her that I’d been called away to my mother. But this morning I felt better. I was contemplating attempting to get out of bed when my door opened and Guy DuCaine stalked in.
He looked grim. A winter warrior, all icy eyes and gray clothing.
I straightened against the pillows, trying to pull my cotton robe more tightly around me. It caught on the edges of the light cast Simon had put on my arm to make sure I gave it enough rest. I gave the robe a quick tug and then decided that maybe, if the very mild flirting I’d attempted yesterday had sent Guy fleeing, perhaps I should leave the robe somewhat adrift.
A good spy uses all the weapons at her disposal, after all.
But Guy only gave me a cursory glance before dragging the wooden chair provided for visitors over to the bed. He looked slightly more rested than yesterday. But he wore what could well be the same clothes. Gray trousers, white shirt. A light gray woolen tunic in acknowledgment of the chilly morning. I wondered how he’d look dressed in colors. Blue perhaps, to bring out his eyes. I realized I was staring and forced my wits back to the task at hand. Namely, getting rid of him.
“Sir Guy,” I said, taking the opening salvo. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
He rubbed his chin, scratching at the pale stubble. Perhaps they were the same clothes after all. Had he even been to bed? And if not, why not?
“You look better,” he said after a moment.
“Yes,” I said warily, “your brother is good at his job.”
“So you’ll be leaving soon?”
The steely tone made my pulse bump unpleasantly. “Simon wants me to stay here a week.”
“Convenient.”
“Not really,” I countered. “I have a job. I don’t know if they’ll keep my position if I miss a week of work.”
“Is that so?” Guy drawled, his accent suddenly drifting elsewhere again. Wherever elsewhere was, the men were dangerous, I was sure. The drawl was rough yet honeyed, seemingly pitched to scrape just right against female nerves.
Or perhaps to addle their brains. I gathered my wits. “Yes,” I replied crisply in what I hoped was an I’m-completely-unaffected-by-you-and-completely-innocent tone. “It is.”
“Strange. I wasn’t aware that spies kept regular hours.”
Chapter Five
HOLLY
Lords of hell. He knew who I was.
First rule of discovery. Deny, deny, deny.
I lifted my chin even as my skin chilled with horror. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. I work for a modiste.”
He shook his head. “Nice story, but I spent some time in Brightown last night. Looking for someone who might be able to procure some information. After I’d poured enough gin down enough throats, I got a recommendation to contact the Owl. Who, apparently, might go by the name of Holly some of the time. Care to try again?” His voice was dangerously flat and cold.
Stick to the story, Holly girl. “I’m sure I’m not the only female in the City named Holly.” I fought not to dig my hands into the counterpane, settling for smoothing it out with brisk strokes instead.
“You’re the only one I know who climbs about on rooftops in the middle of the night,” he countered. “Seems a strange thing for a seamstress to do.”
“Perhaps that was why I was so bad at it.”
“Perhaps you were having a bad night. We all have those.”
Sometimes we have bad days too, I thought mutinously. If Guy had figured out my real identity, then Lady only knew what might happen. At worst he’d try to have me kicked out of St. Giles, though maybe I could claim haven if he did. At best, I’d be viewed with suspicion, which would make fulfilling the task Cormen had set that much harder. “I already told you why I was on the roof.”
“Yes, and a very unconvincing tale it was too,” he said, blue eyes still studying me with a chill that made me want to huddle under the blankets.
Winter indeed.
Cold and potentially lethal.
“Strangely, no one could tell me exactly what this Owl looks like. Female, they agree on, average height, but one man swore red hair and blue eyes and another black with brown.”
“Whereas I have hazel eyes and brown hair.”
“If you call that brown,” Guy said. “I’d imagine a spy can change her appearance. Your hair was darker the night we met.”
“That was probably the gaslight. Everything looks different under gaslight,” I said, silently cursing the failed glamour that had left me horrified to see my true hair color—odd streaks and all—in the mirror on the first morning I’d woken up here. I could’ve cast another, but I didn’t really have the energy to spare.
“Oh, I’m a fairly good judge of how things look under gaslight,” he said. “The one thing that people did seem to agree on is that several of them have seen a heavy gold chain around this Owl’s neck. Quite distinctive, they said. Links like feathers. Though no one could tell me what might be hanging from it.”
He leaned forward and ran one finger under the collar of my nightgown.
I froze as his finger stroked my skin, and heat rushed through me. My body liked his touch. My brain, however, was flat-out horrified.
His eyes met mine and for a moment he stilled as well, as if he’d forgotten what he was doing.
But then he jerked my chain and the cursed pendant into plain view. The heavy gold key glittered darkly in the light, the amethysts, black diamonds, and deep blue sapphires—sa’Inviel colors—that decorated it sending colored sparks along the walls.
“Something like this, I’d imagine,” Guy said, leaning forward. His eyes narrowed as he took in the pendant. “Changing your appearance is even easier if you’re Fae.”
“I’m not.” I hoped like hell that he couldn’t read my lineage in the gems.
“Part, then.”
“That’s none of your business,” I said, stuffing the key back beneath my nightgown and trying not to pay attention to the patch of skin still tingling where he’d touched me. If only I’d found a replacement for Stefan Rousselline already. If I’d had a bedmate right now, I wouldn’t be acting quite so foolishly over the Templar.
“The Night World is my business,” Guy said, settling into his chair. “It seems it’s yours as well.”
It seemed pointless to keep up the pretense. “So?” I snapped. “I haven’t broken any human laws in a human borough. I haven’t started a riot in a border borough. There’s nothing to interest you here, Templar.”
His eyes caught mine for another long second and my heart started to pound. Oh, this man was dangerous all right. Burn-you-to-cinders dangerous. My mother had always taught me not to play with fire. Though, right now, I struggled to remember why.
“On the contrary,” he said. “I think I may have a job for you.”
I couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d knelt down and proposed marriage. “You want to hire me?”
“The Most Holy Order of the Knights Templar wants to hire you,” he corrected.
“What need does the order have of spies?” I asked, trying to adjust to the rapid turn the conversation had taken. My jaw wasn’t actually hanging open, but it felt as though it were.
“We need information, the same as anyone else. We need to know what’s going on in the Night World right now. Who’s winning the war for power.”
“Why?”
“Because it will keep my men safe.” He paused, looked as though he was about to continue, then paused again.
“It will help us keep others safe,” he continued. “We need to know where the trouble spots are, where we should be patrolling. We need to know who’s fanning the flames.”
“Don’t you already have informants?” I knew very well that they did. But I’d never been tempted to get stuck in the middle of the humans and the Night World. It was complicated enough navigating the Beasts and Blood and Fae and Nightseekers without adding the human world into
the mix.
“Our sources are remarkably . . . closemouthed at the moment. Hedging their bets.”
He had that much right. The shift and flow of Night World power mongers was as slippery as a greased snake. Which I guess was as good a metaphor for the Night World as any. Deadly. Lightning fast. With fangs. Lots of writhing and flailing and sudden death occurring as the snake tried to grow a new head to replace the one it had lost.
It was good for business even if it increased the risks. But working amongst the Night World was one thing. Working for the Templars against the Night World was likely to result in me being one of those sudden deaths.
“There are others you could hire, if you name the right price,” I said. I tapped the cast on my arm. “After all, it’s not as if I can do much with this.”
“Only if you need to go sneaking around on the tops of buildings.”
“What I do tends to involve a certain amount of sneaking around on the tops of buildings. Besides, your brother is keeping me here for a while. Unless you think the Blood are plotting beneath St. Giles.”
He looked frustrated, face twisting. “Simon will let you out if I tell him to.”
I shrugged, trying not to let the steely determination in his voice intimidate my good sense into capitulation. What he was proposing was potentially lethal. There were those amongst my clientele who would not take kindly to me switching sides. “I’m sorry, it’s too dangerous. I can’t help you if I’m dead.”
“I can protect you.”
I laughed, I couldn’t help it. The mental image of me sneaking over a rooftop with a Templar in full regalia in tow was ridiculous. “You?”
“What’s so funny?”
“Well, look at you.” I waved a hand at him, still laughing. Big, solid, blond. Everything about him screamed “human” and “good” and, to anyone who knew anything about combat, “warrior.” Plus there were those big red Templar crosses tattooed across the backs of his hands. “Even if you could hide your hands, you might as well have a sign saying ‘I’m a Templar’ hung around your neck.”
