by S. A. Ravel
Their suddenly low cash reserves weren’t the main problem. The Despres were survivors. “How long until Lans comes calling?”
“Five days. A week if that whore Luck opens her legs. Probably not long enough to borrow it from anywhere. A con could buy us more time…”
Perrine shook her head, full lips pursing. “What could we sell him on that he would care about?”
Narcisse shrugged and drank from his tumbler of whiskey. He must have been stalling for time, trying to soften the blow of whatever suggestion he’d come up with.
“I know a few boys who are new in town and hurting for cash,” he said. “They could drop in, nice and flashy like.”
“And cost us a few hundred credits in damage, not to mention scaring the hell out of my girls.” Perrine ran her fingers along her forehead to keep the approaching headache at bay. “Meanwhile, Madson will tell us to pay up anyway.” A staged robbery wasn’t the answer.
“We’ve gotta do something, bebe. A little birdie tells me that Lans is gonna call the balance in when the next payment is due.”
Perrine scowled. “C’est stupide. Who calls in the principal on the third payment? You miss out on all the juice.”
Lenders didn’t make their money off the loan repayment, they made it from the interest payments. In Nevhana’s underworld, the lenders set the terms, and they almost always only asked for that month’s juice to be covered. Almost nobody could afford to pay back the credits right away; they would have gone through more legal channels if they had that much free cash on hand. So, the lenders delayed payment and collected more interest as a bonus. Unless Perrine’s math was wrong—and her math was never wrong—they should have a minimum of eight payments left before Madson would even consider calling for a full repayment.
“I’ve known the man who told me for thirty years. He wouldn’t have come to me about it if he wasn’t sure.”
She soothed the sinking feeling in her gut with more liquor. It wasn’t ladylike to down a shot and then pour another, but there was no one here but Papa, and he was definitely no lady. “Why would he call early? That doesn’t make any sense. Unless he’s as hard up for money as everyone else… or there’s something he wants more than the money.”
Narcisse drained his glass and set it on the desk. He didn’t say anything, and that wasn’t a good sign. If Narcisse Despre didn’t have a plan, it meant that his read on the situation was the same as hers.
“You don’t know what he wants?” she asked.
Narcisse shook his head, avoiding her eyes. “Whatever it is, he’s not talking about it.”
Perrine rose and slid back into her heels, eyes trained on her father’s face. The bastard knew something, and it was bad—he couldn’t lie to her worth a damn when he felt guilty. But she knew well enough that he wouldn’t tell her anything until he was good and ready. Usually when shit had already splattered the walls. “Then do whatever it takes to make sure we don’t find out. I’ll work the floor and pop the books tonight. Maybe I can find the money somewhere.”
Even as she said it, Perrine knew the money wasn’t there. Somehow, they would have to come up with tens of thousands of credits in a week or face Lans Madson’s wrath.
At the end of the night, Perrine sat cross-legged in her office chair, sparkling heels tossed to the side and her curls held back in a ponytail. She rested her chin on one hand while the other swiped over her desk, manipulating the digital rendering of the club’s balance sheet for the night. The VIP’s Perrine hoped would bring in more tourists grabbed her best dancer and disappeared into a private room for the entire night, ordering shots of expensive liquor. Between the comped drinks and covering the hole in the dancer’s nightly wages, the appearance cost Perrine three thousand credits. Nearly a third of her minimum payment to Madson, one tenth what she would owe if he called in the principal, but more than twice what she had in her personal accounts.
Every idea Perrine came up with had at least one glaring flaw that made it unworkable. Her father’s fake robbery scheme would only leave them with a pile of glassware to replace and a reputation for lax security. Lans Madson’s heartstrings wouldn’t budge at the faux misfortune, if he fell for it in the first place. Outright pleas for mercy would fall on equally deaf ears, as Lans didn’t have much mercy to spare.
There was only one card Perrine could play, one tactic she could use to save the club… if she could bring herself to do it. Technically, the loan which Lans held was taken in Narcisse’s name. If they scrubbed his name from Club Parodie records, the debt would fall onto the restaurant. Narcisse could sell the business to settle the debt, or give it to Lans outright as a peace offering. Either way, between the profits of Club Parodie and her mother’s salon, the family finances were healthy enough to sustain them all… for a while.
It was the best chance Perrine had to walk away from the debt with clean hands, but it wasn’t without casualties. The restaurant would be shuttered, there was no way around that. Neither Lans nor his secret patron would have any interest in keeping a restaurant in the working-class district limping along. The plan would also rip the only truly successful business of his career right out of Narcisse’s hands.
She sighed, and rose, closing the books. She’d sleep on it and maybe her dreams would have answers.
His head hurt, and his mood took a turn from foul to truly grotesque. Davin threw his paintbrush on the floor, cursing. Putting more and more energy into choosing particularly creative invectives, varying the tone and volume of his voice until the chamber echoed with his wrath. He would have made a fortune as an opera singer.
“Well, that was a wonderful display of childish behavior,” Karina said, sweeping into the room.
Davin whirled, glaring. His Director wore a sleek, sleeveless dress in dove gray, her long black waves soft around her shoulders. Such a pretty little thing, with such a hard, cold face and avaricious mind. It was why he’d chosen her to run AINA. He had no patience for the politics—his idea of maneuvering, he’d been told years ago, was technically illegal. Who knew intimidation was an actual crime? He’d simply tried to encourage the man to accept the generous incentive Davin offered him in return for a prolonged period of financial support. The human was rich as a god, till this very day. But Davin had been accused of intimidation, a formal complaint lodged against him in the city courts.
What a pussy. And not the licking kind.
“You love my temper,” he said. “How much money did I make last night?”
She stopped in the middle of the room under the perfect beam of light streaming from the windowless ceiling. For a moment, she was beautiful, and Davin had a fleeting thought that… and then he shuddered. He’d rather bed a rat trap, but he supposed there was some male out there with the balls to deal with the wingless Aikalaan woman.
“Not enough.”
“What.” His eyes narrowed, voice flat. “I performed.” He’d laughed, he’d told jokes. He’d brooded magnificently in a corner, draped himself over a couch and held court. He’d picked a fight and told naughty, drunken tales. He’d made a woman cry and had a man on his knees begging for just a night in Davingelo’s bed… for any price. No nubile young men had sucked his cock, though he was hazy on whether he’d eaten pussy, since the taste in his mouth when he woke had been suspect. The debauchery would be lauded for the next decade. How had he not raised all the needed funds to run AINA for the next year? The next century? Debauchery didn’t come for free. Maybe it was time to remind his adoring patrons of that fact.
“But,” she said, forestalling the start of a magnificent tantrum, “I do have some unexpected news.”
“Well?” He stared, irritated. “Speak up, woman.”
“An old patron of yours has a commission for you. He is willing to pay quite a bit for you to… rush… your creative process.”
Davin sighed, dropping the eccentric artist act. “Karina, I can no more paint today than I could last night. It is no use. We have to think of something else.�
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He turned and stared out of the window, arms crossed. He was independently wealthy—but his assets were tied up in the Art institute. Rising to Archan did not automatically come with riches unless one established a Skyhall and maintained land, and then accepted paying tenants who provided rental and tax income. But he’d chosen to build the AINA and honor his roots, the poor artistic family he came from.
“Can you at least try, Davin?” she asked. “If we don’t close the gap in the budget, we must let several of the boarding students go. Who among them would you send away?”
None of them. He closed his eyes and swore. None of them had anywhere to go- it was why they were here. If they were forced out, they’d become whores, or narcotics dealers. It was often the only avenue open to children with no family, no money, and little in the way of a formal education.
“Goddamnit.” He balled this hand in a fist and punched the wall. Plaster crumbled.
“Wonderful,” the Director said. “I’ll take the bill for repair out of your stipend.”
“What fucking stipend?” She’d muttered something about clothing the growing teenagers needed last month and he hadn’t protested.
Karina sighed. “Why don’t you go for an evening out. How long has it been since you left the grounds? Go drink, listen to some music, fuck an unsuspecting girl in a dark room. You have VIP status at every club in Nevhana. Get out, Davingelo. Just don’t do anything that will lose us patrons.”
It wasn’t a bad idea. But he couldn’t promise about the patron part.
3
He chose Club Parodie because he wasn’t in the mood for complete dissolution and he’d heard there were no narcotics allowed in the darkened corners of its premises. If he wanted to get high, he would simply access his own power and ruin another canvas.
The stage was laden with beauties—human and Aikalah alike, the latter flaunting their wings as much as they did long legs and nearly bare chests. He eyed the chests, and dreamed of his mother’s warm wings, and ordered the strongest drink on the menu with instructions to keep it coming. Alcohol, naked women, and music… he should be able to relax in such an environment.
And then the woman walked on stage. She was beautiful, but no more than any of the others if he simply compared her feature for feature. But there was a certain slyness to the curve of her lips, a confidence in the tilt of her head that reminded him of… him. She spoke, and Davin froze, then sat up, listening to the cadence of her voice, caught, not even registering the words. Low and smoky, thrumming with dark humor. Her hair curled around her shoulders, down her bare back, in shimmering umber threaded with the palest of gold. Rich and warm, like her voice.
He didn’t realize she meant to sing until the music kicked in. And Davingelo leaned forward, eyes trained on the stage. On the playful flick of her eyes, the graceful curl of her red-tipped fingers as she beckoned to some imaginary man in the crowd.
His server appeared with another round of drinks. He snagged her wrist, briefly. “Who is that?”
She glanced at her wrist, and he released her. Then she shrugged. “That is Madam Despre, our patroness.” The server’s accent was thick.
“How do I meet her?”
The server stared at him. “Are you rich?”
Davingelo sat back in his chair, wings rustling. “Filthy rich.”
She smiled. “I believe I can arrange a tête-à-tête. Please remain here until you are summoned.”
He listened to Madam Despre’s song, closing his eyes a moment to eliminate the sensory stimuli, and simply absorbed her voice.
Davin hissed when she hit a high, clear note. He felt the vibration in his wings and as he sat, a spark of… something... lit inside him. He grasped for it, greedily, but it slipped away.
Yes, she might be exactly what he needed.
“Monsieur?”
Davin opened his eyes. The light accent, the rich syrup of her voice. She laid a hand on the table, poised as if ready to take flight. The trembling pose was well played. He wondered how many fools had fallen for her charm- and parted with considerably lessened portfolios. Davingelo smiled, and rose. He preferred a challenge, anyway.
“Madam Despre, I am famished to make your acquaintance.” He took her hand, raising it to his lips. “I am—”
“I know who you are, Monsieur Avramchelli.” Her brow rose. “You, sir, are an impossible rogue whose reputation precedes you.”
“I am innocent of all charges you find offensive. Can I convince you to sit with me?”
“Hmm.” She regarded him, then nodded, waiting for Davin to hold out her chair. She crossed a leg, smoothing her hands down the sleek lines of her dress. “I am disappointed to hear you are famished. My kitchens are not to your taste?”
He almost didn’t hear her. Her dress was red, an obvious choice of color, but he couldn’t fault how it complemented her golden-brown tones. Or the plunging neckline revealing a generous amount of cleavage.
Davin lifted his glass. “I’m afraid my diet is deplorable. I’ll have whatever you would recommend.”
A glint of mischief in her dark eyes intrigued him. She tapped a discreet set at her ear and spoke in rapid French, one of the human languages he hadn’t bothered to learn more than a few words of. He might rectify that oversight. She made it sound… sinful.
He enjoyed sin.
Food was delivered, served on what was likely her finest dinnerware.
Davin studied the dishes, lids lowering over his eyes. “How much is this feast costing me?”
“You’re filthy rich, right?”
He glanced at her, the slip in her cultured tones telling, and nearly smirked. She looked at him as if she didn’t realize she’d let slip her irritation at being summoned.
“Is that what pleases you? Money?”
“Surely you aren’t interested in what pleases me.”
Davin chose a steaming bowl brimming with a velvety rich broth of seafood, and took an experimental bite. Spices simmered on his tongue, the flavors a symphony of delicious perfection, each spoonful a testament to the Chef's expert skills.
“What is this?” he asked.
On stage, a lone saxophonist began a sultry tune with melancholy undertones. Ambient lights dimmed, a backlight highlighting the musician in a warm glow. The music encouraged him to relax, take his time, reminisce on days gone by… and buy more wine.
Madam Despre watched him eat, amusement in the tilt of her head. “Gumbo. My papa’s recipe.”
“Hmm. He’s a genius. But I cannot call you Madam Despre- you look barely old enough to be a Mademoiselle. I am Davingelo. You?”
She stared, unblinking. Unmoved. “Perrine.”
“Perrine. How fitting.”
He leaned across the table, offering her a bite of his dinner. She accepted, taking the fork between her lips with a slow, taunting grace that strummed along his nerves. Her eyes held his, deep pools of mystery. His fingers itched.
“Need better light,” he muttered.
“Pardon?”
He glanced up and around, assessing the lighting in the club. “Is there another room with good lighting?”
Her eyes widened. “Ah… I don’t think we can provide the kind of lightning you are used to.”
“Fine. Come to my home.” He leaned forward again, this time grabbing her wrist. Carefully, because he feared he could snap it. “I want to paint you.”
Nude, but he’d sweet talk her into that when she arrived. Some chocolate, some strawberries soaked in wine… plenty of wine. Kisses and licks to her intimate zones, and she would be his. Forever. In his mind, he mixed just the right shade for her skin and hair. The eyes were simpler, but the interplay between eyes and hair… that would be more difficult.
“I see,” she said. “And what is my sitting fee to be?”
What? He stared at her. He was Davingelo Avramchelli, the greatest—
“Sitting fee?” she prompted.
His fingers tapped the table. “Credits are so cr
ass, my darling. I can provide you with… other things.”
She sniffed, rose. “I am not interested in those other things, Monsieur. I am a lady, and do not sell my services cheaply.”
He snorted. That was a lie. She was a nightclub owner, and if some of her dancers weren’t serving flesh on the side, he’d eat his best brush. He needed to figure out her price. Every woman had one. Hers was likely higher than most. Davin sighed, irritated. It figured.
“I suppose you would like me to seduce you,” he said. “You’re in luck- I find myself bored of late, and willing to entertain your protests.” He rose, flicked his hair over his shoulder. It was as long, and as pretty, as hers. A shame for her that she was outmatched—he was an Archan, after all—but in the end, whatever he did to her, he would make sure she begged him for more.
He waited until she stood, then extended a wing without warning, trapping her in a warm cocoon, urging her closer to him. Her eyes narrowed with temper and he smiled, lifting a finger to caress her cheek. He liked temper.
“I will see you again,” Davin said. “Please add a generous tip for the waitress to my bill.”
And he left, rather than hear her mention the inconceivable again.
Sitting fee. He must have had something on his teeth.
Like his daughter, Narcisse Despre was born and raised on Ailaut. Nevhana’s underworld knew him as a charming grifter. He once bragged to Perrine that he could steal a rich widow’s pearls right from her neck, and leave her feeling so good she would only remember the attention he had paid to her. Appearances mattered a lot in Nevhana, more than anything else but cold, hard credits. Perrine’s plan would permanently mark Narcisse as a bad bet. No investor, legitimate or otherwise, would trust him with a project again. He would understand her decision, but it would break him all the same. Keep her club at the expense of her father’s reputation and livelihood, or watch the entire thing crumble around them?
