picking on you is probably my fault.”
“I’m not sure about that.” The salmon’s aroma tempted my nose. My stomach voiced its approval. Tempting was what a satyr did best, after all.
Damn. I took the fork and ate.
“So what’s this about a note-writer?”
Between mouthfuls, I filled Lucen in on everything that had happened between me and the creepy note-writer since I got his message at Kilpatrick’s.
“He claims he can feed on misery like you? Fascinating. Is he a siren, as well?”
In other words, did he have a screwed up satyr’s gift like me? To Lucen, my minimal—by comparison—ability to inspire lust in people by breathing on them was amusing. When I was first learning to control how I expelled the magic, he’d suggested I sing. Concentrate my breath and focus on exhaling. It had worked, and since then I’d become “little siren”—the human who could tempt others with her voice.
I stabbed the last piece of salmon and swirled it around the plate. “I don’t know if he has any kind of gift or what it would be. What do you think?”
“Beats the hell out of me. Until I met you, I’d never heard of such a thing.” He savored his mouthful of beer, frowning. “We should find the goblin who claims to know about your gift and see what’s possible. It must be rare, so if there’s more than one of you floating around this city, there’s good odds you owe your origins to the same person. Do you know the name of the goblin who put the curse on you?”
I shook my head. “Just who it was that told me I was cursed. I don’t even know if it was a goblin that did it.”
“It’s a start. We can begin tonight.” He slid off his stool, his attention ensnared by something across the bar.
“You need to tell me what’s going on with the sylphs first, and I have news about the murders.”
“Yup. Just finish up and give me a minute.”
I picked at my dressing-soaked lettuce, watching Lucen from the corner of my eye. An addict had entered the bar. And not any addict, a lust addict. One of his?
A pit opened up in my stomach. In the ten years I’d known him, I’d never once seen any of Lucen’s addicts. I didn’t even know how many he could afford to keep. It required a bit of magical effort for a pred to bind a human, so the number of addicts they had at any given time was a proxy for how powerful they were. Meanwhile, because they fed off the addicts’ misery, they gained power from each one they had. It was a bit of a Catch-22—the more addicts they took on, the more energy was required, yet the more energy they could reap. I remembered learning something way back when I was in school that the average pred could only keep three to five addicts at once. But if Lucen was the satyr Dom’s third, he wasn’t average. He was way more powerful.
Wasn’t that a happy thought.
The woman’s face lit up when Lucen approached. Yup, she was definitely one of his. She had long dark brown, almost black hair like me, although hers was less a tangle of curls and more shiny waves. Her black shorts rode up to her butt, and the waistline drooped so low in front that she couldn’t possibly be wearing anything beneath them. Her tight button-down shirt was bursting at the breasts, and the heels on her sandals had to be at least three inches. Classic hooker attire. I hated her.
No, I should pity her. She was a victim.
The victim tossed her hair and pouted at Lucen.
Nope, screw it. I hated her. She was just another weak-willed, fake-boobed woman with terrible taste in clothing.
The harpies had to be arousing my jealousy, I realized. Ridiculous, really, because I could pull off that outfit too.
Lucen kissed her then patted her on the butt. Even in the darkness, the ecstatic expression on her face was obvious. She touched Lucen’s arm again, but he shook her off and said something to her. The words didn’t cut through the noise, but her face fell and she waddled that butt behind the bar and grabbed a
“I’m not sure about that.” The salmon’s aroma tempted my nose. My stomach voiced its approval. Tempting was what a satyr did best, after all.
Damn. I took the fork and ate.
“So what’s this about a note-writer?”
Between mouthfuls, I filled Lucen in on everything that had happened between me and the creepy note-writer since I got his message at Kilpatrick’s.
“He claims he can feed on misery like you? Fascinating. Is he a siren, as well?”
In other words, did he have a screwed up satyr’s gift like me? To Lucen, my minimal—by comparison—ability to inspire lust in people by breathing on them was amusing. When I was first learning to control how I expelled the magic, he’d suggested I sing. Concentrate my breath and focus on exhaling. It had worked, and since then I’d become “little siren”—the human who could tempt others with her voice.
I stabbed the last piece of salmon and swirled it around the plate. “I don’t know if he has any kind of gift or what it would be. What do you think?”
“Beats the hell out of me. Until I met you, I’d never heard of such a thing.” He savored his mouthful of beer, frowning. “We should find the goblin who claims to know about your gift and see what’s possible. It must be rare, so if there’s more than one of you floating around this city, there’s good odds you owe your origins to the same person. Do you know the name of the goblin who put the curse on you?”
I shook my head. “Just who it was that told me I was cursed. I don’t even know if it was a goblin that did it.”
“It’s a start. We can begin tonight.” He slid off his stool, his attention ensnared by something across the bar.
“You need to tell me what’s going on with the sylphs first, and I have news about the murders.”
“Yup. Just finish up and give me a minute.”
I picked at my dressing-soaked lettuce, watching Lucen from the corner of my eye. An addict had entered the bar. And not any addict, a lust addict. One of his?
A pit opened up in my stomach. In the ten years I’d known him, I’d never once seen any of Lucen’s addicts. I didn’t even know how many he could afford to keep. It required a bit of magical effort for a pred to bind a human, so the number of addicts they had at any given time was a proxy for how powerful they were. Meanwhile, because they fed off the addicts’ misery, they gained power from each one they had. It was a bit of a Catch-22—the more addicts they took on, the more energy was required, yet the more energy they could reap. I remembered learning something way back when I was in school that the average pred could only keep three to five addicts at once. But if Lucen was the satyr Dom’s third, he wasn’t average. He was way more powerful.
Wasn’t that a happy thought.
The woman’s face lit up when Lucen approached. Yup, she was definitely one of his. She had long dark brown, almost black hair like me, although hers was less a tangle of curls and more shiny waves. Her black shorts rode up to her butt, and the waistline drooped so low in front that she couldn’t possibly be wearing anything beneath them. Her tight button-down shirt was bursting at the breasts, and the heels on her sandals had to be at least three inches. Classic hooker attire. I hated her.
No, I should pity her. She was a victim.
The victim tossed her hair and pouted at Lucen.
Nope, screw it. I hated her. She was just another weak-willed, fake-boobed woman with terrible taste in clothing.
The harpies had to be arousing my jealousy, I realized. Ridiculous, really, because I could pull off that outfit too.
Lucen kissed her then patted her on the butt. Even in the darkness, the ecstatic expression on her face was obvious. She touched Lucen’s arm again, but he shook her off and said something to her. The words didn’t cut through the noise, but her face fell and she waddled that butt behind the bar and grabbed a
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