by E. C. Jarvis
Holt followed behind, walking so close his feet almost caught hers with every step. She tried not to despair at how much she’d longed for such closeness from him, and now that she had it, it was in one of the worst possible settings. As innocent as she was about brothels and prostitution, she was quite sure a prostitute’s boyfriend wouldn’t be allowed to hang around for long unless he paid for the privilege.
“What the fuck is that?” a voice boomed as she walked past an open door without noticing that someone was inside.
She sighed, knowing Holt would have noticed. Her skill in scanning her surroundings and being aware of threats from all directions was about as much use as her flagging healing ability.
“A new girl,” Naomi said.
“And what is the other one?”
“Her boyfriend. I’m going to clean her up before I introduce you.”
“Good. She looks like a pile of horse manure that’s been dragged through a dusty street. Smells like it too,” the voice called to them. It was harsh and round and, although female, not very feminine.
Larissa continued along the corridor, not having seen the owner and not really wanting to put a face to the booming voice. She had the distinct impression that Holt intended to make short work of the woman’s existence. Another set of heavy footsteps thumped along the corridor from behind somewhere.
“Security,” Holt whispered in her ear as they stopped beside the door to Naomi’s room. “Do you want them subdued or dispensed of?”
“Neither.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him into the room with her, closing the door and blocking out their pursuers.
Naomi’s room had the same sickly smell about it, lightly covered by the scent of rose water. The paper on the walls peeled away at the edges, and a very unappealing purple velvet sheet lay strewn across the bed. Larissa looked around for a bath and found her heart sinking when she only saw a basin and water jug. If cleaning a layer of mud and blood from her body meant using a jug of cold water, she wasn’t sure it would be worth the effort.
“Do you want me to clean you up? Your boyfriend can watch,” Naomi said, giving Holt a wink.
“No, I’d rather do it myself, if you don’t mind.”
“We need privacy,” Holt said, pinning Naomi with one of his long stares.
The woman faltered and headed towards the door. “You can take whichever dress you want once you’re clean, but don’t spend too long choosing, Madame Cosby will have you strip for her as soon as you meet.”
As the door closed, Larissa found herself staring uneasily at the bedsheets.
“Focus,” Holt said, his mouth close to her ear.
“How many security men?”
“At least three I know of. The brothel is not yet open. More may follow later.”
“So now is the best time to do make a move?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know, Holt. This seems a bit rushed.”
“You’d rather spend a few days working here before launching an attack?”
“Gods no.”
“You doubt my ability to handle a few overweight security guards and one very overweight Madame?”
“No,” she said after looking him over thoroughly. He seemed like his usual self. The pale sheen on his skin had faded, color returning to his cheeks.
“What is it?” he asked after she spent an inordinate amount of time ogling him.
“You look like you.”
“I would hope that was the case.”
“No, I mean…you’ve looked like death for days, and now you look almost normal.”
He gave her a long, dark stare, then let out a sigh as he headed to the wardrobe. “You should wash,” he said without turning to look.
Larissa approached the basin. A small soap dish sat at the side; the white soap smelled like lavender though it wasn’t strong. She dipped her hands into the water all the way up to the elbows. The water turned murky in an instant.
“You think my healing ability is capable of curing you of the Anthonium poisoning?” she asked as she scraped the soap over her skin. The wound on her arm finally healed, though a pink scar remained.
“Damn, the window is locked. I was planning on sneaking out and performing reconnaissance, then catching the guards from behind,” Holt said.
Larissa tugged the dress from her body and let it fall to the floor at her feet. She should have felt embarrassed but had the distinct sense Holt was doing his best to not look, even though he’d seen her nude more than once, and more than that. She scrubbed her skin, mind racing, thinking a million thoughts all at once.
“Smashing the windows would be too noisy, I suppose,” she said.
“I’m no expert on Anthonium and its benefits or dangers, but it would seem reasonable that someone who is immune to the poison and possessed a healing ability could heal a person who was suffering from such effects,” Holt said.
“I suppose I shall have to meet with this Madame Cosby. If I can put on enough of a performance, I might be able to distract the guards to give you a chance to slip past. If what we have both concluded about the Anthonium is true, do you suppose the healing is temporary or permanent?”
“What sort of performance?” Holt said, his tone cool.
“I have no idea. An enticing one.” Larissa worked the soap down her body.
“Hmm.”
“Because if the healing is only temporary for as long as you are close to me, then it follows that we should remain close indefinitely,” Larissa said, finally turning to look at Holt. He no longer avoided looking at her. Instead, he was staring directly at her.
“Indeed,” Holt said.
“You realize we’ve been having two entirely different conversations simultaneously?” Larissa said.
“Yes. Both have been…revealing.” He cleared his throat and turned back to the wardrobe, selecting a dress from it. He walked over and offered it to her, his stance awkward, arm stiff, eyes staring at a fixed spot on the wall.
“Your hair is a mess,” he said.
“I don’t have time to wash my hair,” she said as she took the dress from him and pulled herself into it. “I don’t want to put on a show for too long, so let’s figure this out. Where do you think the money would be kept?”
“Most likely in the room with the Madame.”
“And I don’t suppose you’ll be allowed in with me.”
“I believe I will be escorted out the moment you leave this room. The guards are waiting outside.”
“Then I will get the money. You keep the security busy.”
Holt watched as she pulled the dress into place on her body. It was a flimsy thing made of cream-colored taffeta, designed for easy removal. She’d found a pair of knickers and wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to wear them, but after some internal debate, she concluded that going into battle sans underwear seemed a little absurd, especially if she didn’t find any more suitable clothing in the meantime. She wasn’t enamoured with the idea of presenting her private areas to anyone apart from Holt, especially not the President during an attempt to overthrow him. It wasn’t until she’d finished dressing that it occurred to her that she had committed herself to getting the money out of the place where they assumed it to be hidden. There was no plan in her mind to accompany such a commitment.
“You want me to keep the security busy?”
“Or subdue them.”
“Subdue,” Holt said quietly.
“Yes. As in…not kill. You can use your imagination with the rest.” Larissa opened the door to find three faces staring down at her. Naomi stood closest, a look of eager anticipation on her face, and behind her, two exceedingly tall and well-built men loomed in the background. Larissa’s heart fluttered at the sight of them. She hoped Holt was healed enough to survive a fight. She began to second-guess her instruction that he spare their lives, but as Naomi looped her arm through Larissa’s elbow and dragged her out of the room, she didn’t have a chance to articulate her thoughts.
“Say goodbye to your boyfriend. You’ll see him again after tonight.”
Larissa strained to look over her shoulder at Holt as she marched down the corridor; the broad back of one of the guards was all she could see.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
The swaying of Larissa’s hips in the dress set something off inside Holt the moment she walked away. The thought of her presenting herself to anyone—even a woman as part of a ruse—made his blood boil. She was his, heart and soul, and he would happily murder an entire city of people to defend her if needed. On the other hand, he had agreed to avoid killing unless completely necessary. It went against his nature and his intent. After accepting the grim mission for what it was, taking lives—especially those of pond scum like brothel workers—meant nothing to him. Larissa’s view was clearly less morbid. He admired and hated her for it in equal measure. He reminded himself that she was more capable than anyone ever gave her credit for, even herself. She wasn’t a damsel in distress, awaiting his saving graces at every turn. It didn’t stop him itching to follow after her down the corridor. Not least because he wanted to watch her backside swaying in the dress for a little while longer.
He mentally berated himself for getting distracted and turned his attention back to the two hairy thugs glaring daggers at him. He could drop them both in short order if not for the promise. His hand twitched towards the dagger concealed at his side.
“Out,” the nearest man barked down at him.
Holt turned and headed in the opposite direction, intending to pass by the room with the Madame to see Larissa before making his move. A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and forcibly turned him around, shoving him down the hall.
“What time do you open?” he asked as casually as he could.
“Three o’clock. You can’t afford her tonight. She’ll be reserved for one of the richer clients, pretty thing like that.”
Holt curled his fingers into a fist. The two men escorting him were no taller than him, but both together were stocky, a mixture of muscle and fat, immovable mountains who would take more than a few punches to subdue with fists. He might chance an attack on one in such close quarters, but he was sure that fighting two at once would draw too much attention. They turned around two corners, the corridor narrowing markedly as they neared the rear of the property, until they finally reached the back door.
“Come back tomorrow. No earlier than six in the morning. You will be allowed a visit each day, but you must follow the house rules, or else.” The nearest guard pulled the door open and shoved Holt through it into the alleyway. The door slammed shut behind him.
Holt took a moment to still the anger growing in his gut, like sparks of lightening cracking around his brain, making his head thump with pain. His closed his eyes to the brickwork of the building. The trickling noise of water in the gutter wafted smells akin to the worst latrine he’d ever visited. Death, decay, and disgusting debauchery surrounded him like an encompassing air of all that was wrong with the world. Another minute passed. His fists uncurled. The anger and stress of the situation had faded away to insignificance, and he could once more focus on the task at hand.
He turned on his toes, the movement silent and catlike. His eyes scaled the wall leading up to the crooked rooftop. It was shabby, in need of maintenance, and a tricky thing to traverse stealthily in daylight. Someone passed by the alleyway down the main road—a pair of women in high heels, their dresses so revealing they may as well have been naked. They didn’t turn in his direction. Once they’d passed, he listened closely for more people approaching, and when sure no one was nearby, he made his move.
Beside the door, a drainpipe ran from the second floor of the building leading to the gutter. He placed his fingertips on the door frame, one toe stuck to the drainpipe bracket. He bounced once, testing the strength of the structure, and though it didn’t move, he wasn’t certain it could take his weight. With one leap, he scaled to the top of the doorframe, the toes of his left foot perched on the edge of the frame. His right foot had found a slight gap in the pointing between the brickwork, his hands gripping the pipe for stability. With another push, he reached the top of the pipe as it curled inside the building. Standing on one foot, fingers gripping the brickwork, he scanned the overhang of the roof from his position. The majority of the tiles were misaligned and crumbled around the edges. He aimed for the slope at the back of the building, bent his knee as much as he dared without risking upsetting the drainpipe, then leapt up and across. His hands found the edge of the tiles. One broke, cutting into his palm, the shard of tile smashed into the alley below, but the other remained firm. He scrambled up onto the rooftop as silently as possible and lay flat against it.
He pressed his cheek into the tiles and let the exertion of the effort calm in his breathing. After listening for a moment to see if anyone had heard the tile smash, he worked across the rooftop, hand over hand, body pressed into the sharp angle of the tiles. From his position, he could see the roof of the clothing shop where they had left Kerrigan, a thin line of smoke rising up from the chimney. A low growl echoed at the back of his throat. Either Kerrigan was foolish enough to give away his position by lighting a fire, or someone else had taken up residence inside and presumably murdered the Colonel. It was more irritating to think he’d wasted the effort in saving Kerrigan if the man had only gone and gotten himself killed than it was to think of his demise.
Holt reached the center of the roof and looked up to the chimney stack above. It too appeared rundown and in need of repair. It wasn’t exactly the safe route inside, but he was running out of choices, and as he thought of Larissa and what she might be currently doing, the concerns of safety fell away from his mind. Slowly and carefully, he climbed up the roof, his hand aching, palm bleeding from the shattered tile. He pushed the pain to the back of his thoughts and found the chimney. Thankfully, no smoke arose from below. He looked down, hoping to see the light from a room below him, but only blackness filled his vision. He gave one last look across the city. Scores of grey buildings, abandoned and rundown, stretched out in all directions, save for the mess of twisted metal that had once been the Hub. He let out a laboured sigh and swung his legs over the lip of the chimney. He hoped the descent would be the hardest part of the path ahead.
. . .
Larissa walked with Naomi until they turned into the room containing the brothel’s owner. The room appeared small and utterly disorganized; a large desk occupied the center with pieces of paper strewn across it and thick leather ledgers balanced on one edge. The floor was a mess of books, paper. and discarded, dirty plates smudged with food. Remnants of the building’s prior use had been shoved into boxes in the corner, cogs and springs poking out from the unclosed lid. Behind the desk, occupying a large leather chair, was an excessively large, dark-skinned woman. Her black hair was piled on the top of her head and pinned in place with a letter opener. The woman wore bright red lipstick, which suited neither her complexion nor her personality. Rolls of fat spilled out of her body in all directions, consuming the arms of the chair rather than resting upon them.
“The new girl, Miss,” Naomi said, shoving Larissa into the room.
“Good. You’ll get your bonus after tonight,” the Madame, Miss Cosby, said as she waved Naomi away.
The door shut behind Larissa, trapping her inside. There were no windows in the room, and as far as Larissa could see, there was nothing obvious hiding a safe. She suppressed a sigh at her incorrect assumption.
“Name?” Miss Cosby said as she dipped a quill into an inkpot and opened one of the ledgers.
“Larissa,” she replied.
One perfectly manicured eyebrow shot upwards on the Madame’s face. “Surname?”
“Markus.”
Miss Cosby paused before writing the surname down and flicked her eyes up at Larissa. The whites of her eyes seemed to shimmer with devious intent. “Larissa…Markus,” she repeated, leaning back in her chair and setting the quill down.
Larissa felt
her heart flutter. She had forgotten that her name held a certain notoriety. It had been so long since she’d been back, in her home country, her home city. Her old life seemed further away than the exotic shores of Eptora. The father she’d once imagined as a mysterious but loving man had been known as Professor Markus, the eminent archaeologist who’d disappeared under unusual circumstances, his fame stretched across the world, and with it, her own name held a small light of recognition to most who paid attention to rumours. Furthermore, the events leading to the downfall of an entire city, the collapse of the Hub and the disappearance of Professor Watts, had given her another level of infamy, as she had been fingered as the culprit of criminal activity. She had forgotten so much, but most importantly, she had forgotten that her name was now a very dangerous thing to offer up in her naïvely honest manner. She could almost hear Holt’s voice admonishing her for the mistake. Worse still, she wasn’t sure under which capacity Miss Cosby knew of her. She snapped her mouth shut and resolved to give away no more honest detail than was truly necessary.
“Take your clothes off, then,” Miss Cosby said after a moment of stunned silence. She waved a fat arm at Larissa, the underarm flapping about with the movement.
“Is that really necessary?” Larissa asked. She’d been expecting further questioning and would have probably preferred it to the thought of getting naked.
“I have certain clients who like certain things. Some like blondes, so you’ll be good for them once you clean up that messy nest on your head. Others have more…specific requirements. I need to know if you meet any of their criteria so I know who will enjoy you most, and I can’t do that by having a conversation with you, sweetheart. Trust me, the men who come here don’t pay good money for talking. Now take your clothes off or I’ll ask one of my boys to come in here and do it for you.”
