The Fire King by Marjorie M. Liu Page B

nonetheless—until they saw her empty sleeve. Then the same look crossed their faces that she had seen a million times back home, at the grocery store or gas station, or in the airport: a flinch in their eyes, a faint twist of their mouths, and then nothing, a mask wiping their expressions clean away. As if she were no longer a woman. Just air. A thing taking up space.
    The mass scrutiny only lasted seconds before the men ducked their heads and began busying themselves on their phones; but seconds was all it took to cut Soria. Sometimes a person didn’t want to be caught staring, so they went out of their way to do the opposite, while others were frightened, disgusted, unable to handle the reality of a missing limb and capable only of seeing its absence, not the person.
I’m still me,
Soria told herself, glancing down at the silver bracelet on her wrist, turquoise glinting. It was the wrong wrist but the same body. The same heart.
    The front desk was staffed by a pretty young woman in a cheap gray suit, who wore a red ribbon at her throat. A faint bruise was healing around her eye. To the left a sheer curtain shimmered, hiding a room full of shadows. Music pulsed, mixed with rough laughter. Soria glimpsed a stage, and the dancing silhouettes of lithe bodies.
    “She needs to make an overseas call,” her escort said to the receptionist, with a hint of amusement. “What rooms are free?”
    “You sure a call is all she wants?” The woman gave Soria a once-over that ended at her empty sleeve, and a smile of both disdain and bitterness crossed her tired face. “Pay someone to poke her. No one else will.”
    The man shook his head, still smiling. Soria leaned over the counter, staring into the woman’s bruised eyes. “Save the commentary. All I want is a phone.”
    Her Mongolian was still flawless, the words settling comfortably on her tongue. Surprise flickered over the woman’s face. She looked from Soria to the man, and then back again. “Why do you need it?”
    Soria set her jaw and pulled out a one-hundred-dollar Chinese bill. More than enough to pay for a prostitute’s services in this place. She slid the money across the counter toward the receptionist, but the man intercepted and smoothly folded the crisp bill into his pocket. He gave the girl a hard look. “She can use the phone. And a room.”
    Not even Soria wanted to tangle with that glint in his eye. The receptionist fumbled inside a drawer. She pulled out a battered cell phone, and then stood.
    “Follow me,” she said.
    The building was larger on the inside than it had first appeared. Soria followed the girl up three flights of stairs, and on each floor she heard echoes of tears and laughter, smacking sounds and rough grunts. Her skin crawled, and she found herself twisting her empty sleeve into knots. She hated it here—but she’d been in worse places, other brothels, acting as translator for the various trafficking cases in which Dirk & Steele involved themselves. It never felt as though they made a dent. The wheel kept spinning, and girls and boys were always getting hurt.
    The receptionist led Soria to a room near the top of the stairs. It was plain inside, with a neatly made bed, a window, and a small bathroom that smelled like a mix of perfume and old urine. Soria dragged money from her pocket, and pushed it into the other woman’s hand.
    “For you,” she said, and then gave her another, smaller, bill. “And for him, when he asks.”
    The woman narrowed her eyes but said nothing. She merely hitched up her skirt, revealing pale skin and bruises. She stuffed most of the cash into her underwear. The rest, she placed inside her bra. Soria watched in silence, and then held out her hand for the cell phone.
    The receptionist hesitated. “Businessmen sometimes lose their money here, or passports. He gives them this phone when they are desperate to make a call home to families. But it does not work. Just makes them owe more money.”
    “Ah,”