shot off to save them both.
Phury looked over his shoulder. “No. I remember everything. All of it.”
With no remorse whatsoever, he dematerialized and re-assumed form on Trade Street.
Facing off at ZeroSum, his heart and his head screaming, he was called forth to cross the road like he’d been chosen for this mission of self-destruction, tapped on the shoulder, beckoned forward by the bony forefinger of his addiction.
He couldn’t fight the invite. Worse, he didn’t want to.
As he approached the club’s front doors, his feet—the real one and the one made of titanium—were serving the wizard’s mission. The pair of them took him right in the front door and past the VIP area’s security guard and by the tables of highfliers to the back, to Rehvenge’s office.
The Moors nodded and one of them talked into his watch. While waiting, Phury knew damn well he was stuck in an endless loop, going around and around like the head of a drill, digging further and further underground. With each new level that he sank to, he tapped into deeper and richer veins of poisonous ore, ones that spidered up through the bedrock of his life and enticed him down even farther. He was heading for the source, for the consummation with hell that was his ultimate destination, and each lower plateau was his malignant encouragement.
The Moor on the right, Trez, nodded and opened the door to the black cave. Here was where little bits of Hades were dealt out in cellophane Baggies, and Phury went in with twitchy impatience.
Rehvenge came out of a pocket door, his amethyst stare shrewd and slightly disappointed.
“Your usual gone already?” he asked quietly.
The sin-eater knew him so well, Phury thought.
“It’s symphath , remmy?” Rehv slowly went to his desk, relying on his cane. “Sin-eater’s such an ugly degradation. And I don’t need my bad side to know where you’re at. So how much is it going to be tonight?”
The male unbuttoned his flawless double-breasted black jacket and lowered himself into a black leather chair. His low-cut mohawk glistened as if he’d just gotten out of the shower, and he smelled good, a combination of Cartier for Men and some kind of spicy shampoo.
Phury thought of the other dealer, the one who had died back in that alley just now, the one who had bled out while reaching for help that never came. That Rehv was dressed like something off of Fifth Avenue didn’t change what he was.
Phury looked down at himself. And realized that his clothes didn’t alter what he was either.
Shit . . . one of his daggers was missing.
He’d left it back in the alley.
“The usual,” he said, taking a thousand dollars out of his pocket. “Just the usual.”
Chapter Seven
Upstairs in her bloodred bedroom, Cormia couldn’t shake the conviction that by going outside, she had triggered a chain of events, the culmination of which she couldn’t begin to guess at. She only knew that destiny’s hands were moving things around behind her stage’s velvet curtain, and when the two halves opened again, something new was going to be revealed.
She wasn’t sure she trusted fate to have the next act in the play be one she would enjoy. But she was stuck in the audience with nowhere to go.
Except that wasn’t entirely true, was it.
Going to her door, she cracked it open and looked down the Oriental runner to the head of the grand staircase.
The hall of statues was off to the right.
Every time she came to the second floor, she caught a glimpse of the elegant figures in their windowed corridor and was fascinated. In their formality and their frozen bodies and their white robes, they reminded her of the Sanctuary.
In their nudity and their maleness, they were utterly foreign.
If she could go outside, she could go down and see the statues up close. She absolutely could.
Whispering down the runner in her bare feet, she passed the Primale’s bedroom, then Rhage and Mary’s. The king’s study, which was at the
Phury looked over his shoulder. “No. I remember everything. All of it.”
With no remorse whatsoever, he dematerialized and re-assumed form on Trade Street.
Facing off at ZeroSum, his heart and his head screaming, he was called forth to cross the road like he’d been chosen for this mission of self-destruction, tapped on the shoulder, beckoned forward by the bony forefinger of his addiction.
He couldn’t fight the invite. Worse, he didn’t want to.
As he approached the club’s front doors, his feet—the real one and the one made of titanium—were serving the wizard’s mission. The pair of them took him right in the front door and past the VIP area’s security guard and by the tables of highfliers to the back, to Rehvenge’s office.
The Moors nodded and one of them talked into his watch. While waiting, Phury knew damn well he was stuck in an endless loop, going around and around like the head of a drill, digging further and further underground. With each new level that he sank to, he tapped into deeper and richer veins of poisonous ore, ones that spidered up through the bedrock of his life and enticed him down even farther. He was heading for the source, for the consummation with hell that was his ultimate destination, and each lower plateau was his malignant encouragement.
The Moor on the right, Trez, nodded and opened the door to the black cave. Here was where little bits of Hades were dealt out in cellophane Baggies, and Phury went in with twitchy impatience.
Rehvenge came out of a pocket door, his amethyst stare shrewd and slightly disappointed.
“Your usual gone already?” he asked quietly.
The sin-eater knew him so well, Phury thought.
“It’s symphath , remmy?” Rehv slowly went to his desk, relying on his cane. “Sin-eater’s such an ugly degradation. And I don’t need my bad side to know where you’re at. So how much is it going to be tonight?”
The male unbuttoned his flawless double-breasted black jacket and lowered himself into a black leather chair. His low-cut mohawk glistened as if he’d just gotten out of the shower, and he smelled good, a combination of Cartier for Men and some kind of spicy shampoo.
Phury thought of the other dealer, the one who had died back in that alley just now, the one who had bled out while reaching for help that never came. That Rehv was dressed like something off of Fifth Avenue didn’t change what he was.
Phury looked down at himself. And realized that his clothes didn’t alter what he was either.
Shit . . . one of his daggers was missing.
He’d left it back in the alley.
“The usual,” he said, taking a thousand dollars out of his pocket. “Just the usual.”
Chapter Seven
Upstairs in her bloodred bedroom, Cormia couldn’t shake the conviction that by going outside, she had triggered a chain of events, the culmination of which she couldn’t begin to guess at. She only knew that destiny’s hands were moving things around behind her stage’s velvet curtain, and when the two halves opened again, something new was going to be revealed.
She wasn’t sure she trusted fate to have the next act in the play be one she would enjoy. But she was stuck in the audience with nowhere to go.
Except that wasn’t entirely true, was it.
Going to her door, she cracked it open and looked down the Oriental runner to the head of the grand staircase.
The hall of statues was off to the right.
Every time she came to the second floor, she caught a glimpse of the elegant figures in their windowed corridor and was fascinated. In their formality and their frozen bodies and their white robes, they reminded her of the Sanctuary.
In their nudity and their maleness, they were utterly foreign.
If she could go outside, she could go down and see the statues up close. She absolutely could.
Whispering down the runner in her bare feet, she passed the Primale’s bedroom, then Rhage and Mary’s. The king’s study, which was at the
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