Wicked Intentions

28

I unhook the clasp on the necklace with a practiced flick of my fingers. It slithers down my chest. I capture it in my hands, thrusting it at Reynard because I’m suddenly filled with disgust for it.

At least he has the manners to look ashamed when he takes it from me. “I’m sorry, my darling—”

“Don’t be. I knew what I was doing when I took the oath. And it was worth it, to keep you alive after everything you did for me. I’m just tired.”

I find the nearest chair and sink into it, dragging my hands through my hair. He watches me silently, examining my face.

Again I’m reminded of the American. He and Reynard have that same hard speculation in their gazes, the way of making you feel utterly exposed in spite of all your careful disguises.

Stop thinking about him, Mari. Don’t waste time on foolish dreams. Exhaling heavily, I pass a hand over my eyes.

Still holding the ruby necklace, Reynard says sharply, “What’s going on? You’re different tonight. What’s happened?”

I lift my eyes and I lie again, because I have to, because the notion of honor among thieves exists in the same place as Tinker Bell.

Neverland, where children never age, and all it takes to keep you alive is faith, trust, and a little bit of pixie dust.

“Nothing,” I say, keeping my face as blank as my voice. “Now why don’t you tell me where I’m supposed to meet that son of a b***h so I can get it over with.”

Reynard opens a drawer in the Louis XVI cabinet and removes a black velvet bag. Into it he carefully deposits the necklace. Then he draws the bag closed, puts it back into the cabinet, and lifts his gaze to mine.

“He’s staying at the Palace. And please, Mariana. Be careful. He’s in a strange mood.”

“When isn’t he?” I mutter.

“You’ll need these.” Reynard opens a different drawer. Another black velvet bag appears, this one much smaller than the first. From inside comes the soft c***k of metal sliding against metal as he carries it over to me and places it in my outstretched hand.

I open the bag and peer inside, then look at Reynard with my brows pulled together. “I only need one to get past the doorman.”

Reynard’s pause could mean anything. It’s short but weighty, and tells me he’s carefully considering his words. “You never know what you’re going to need when you’re in the Palace, my darling. Better safe than sorry.”

Those words echo in my ears long after I’ve had my tea and left.

From the outside, the Palace looks like a dump. It’s an abandoned, decaying textile mill in a dodgy part of town, near the docks, a block or two away from a large homeless encampment. Tourists don’t come around here. Neither do the police, who are paid handsomely to turn a blind eye.

The cabbie thinks I’ve given him the wrong address.

“Nuttin’ here but trouble, miss,” he says in a thick Cockney accent, peering through his window at the ten-story building outside.

It looks deserted. All the windows are blacked out. Old newspapers and the odd bit of trash decorate the sidewalk. A skinny orange tabby cat slinks around a corner, catches sight of the cab idling at the curb, and darts back out of sight.

“No, this is it. Thank you.” I hand him a fifty-pound note through the opening in the plastic screen that divides us and get out of the cab.

He doesn’t even offer me change before he drives off, tires squealing.

“Sissy,” I mutter, flipping up the collar of my coat to ward off the chill of the evening.

It doesn’t help.

I walk down a dark alley on the side of the building until I reach an unmarked door. The reek of the Dumpsters nearby is overwhelming. I rap my knuckles on the cold metal to the tune of “Shave and a Haircut,” shivering as an icy wind whips around my bare ankles.

A small window in the center of the door slides open with a clack. An eyeball peers out at me. Then a deep male voice grunts, “Piss off.”

I say, “New England clam chowder.”

The eyeball gives me a searing once-over.

From my pocket I remove a silver coin and hold it up so the eyeball can see it. “Open sesame, amigo. It’s freezing out here.”

The eyeball disappears as the window slams shut. The quiet of the alley is broken by the scrape of the door opening and the doorman’s greeting, friendlier now that he’s heard the password and seen the coin.

“Evenin’.”

He holds out his hand. It’s the size of a dinner plate. Into his palm I set the piece of stamped silver. He nods and steps back, allowing me to pass.

I walk down a short corridor lit by a single bare bulb hanging from a wire on the ceiling. A freight elevator awaits at the end, its doors gaping open. I step inside and press a button marked “Limbo.”

After a short ride, the doors open again to what appears to be the lobby of a posh hotel.

The Palace is a posh hotel. And bar, nightclub, neutral meeting space—even safe house if needed—all designed for a particular clientele.

A spectacularly beautiful redhead in a tailored ivory suit smiles at me from behind a marble counter to my left. Her fiery hair is gathered into a low chignon. Her skin is milk white. A gold placard on the counter reads “Concierge.”

When I approach her counter, she smiles wider. “Dragonfly. How wonderful to see you again.”

“Hello, Genevieve.”

She notices I’m not carrying luggage. “I take it you’re not staying with us long?”

“No. Do you have any messages for me?”

“One moment, please