by Loren Walker
“Not an option,” Theron said. “I have to keep every appointment. Show strength."
“Why?”
Renzo jostled her under the table. When she glowered at him, he gave her a pointed look, as if asking: Why do you think?
She couldn’t help her snappish tone, though. She wanted to get a rise out of Theron, to pierce through that cold and figure out what was going on underneath.
“Your assassin is likely someone in your world,” CaLarca said.
“No,” Theron said, already distracted. “It doesn’t fit.”
“What do you mean, it doesn’t fit?” Renzo asked, surprised. “You’ve already ruled them all out?”
“It’s too violent."
“For the mob?” Phaira couldn’t help but blurt out.
Theron shot her a look. Then he sighed and rubbed his face with his hand. “There are rules,” he told the three. “Guns, sure. Beatings. A fall off a rooftop. People don’t stray from what they know. But this is - this is animalistic. Done in public. Whoever this is, it’s not the norm.”
“Someone could have hired an outsider,” Phaira pointed out.
“I’m assuming you’ve checked for bounty contracts,” Renzo chimed in. “Both public and underground.”
“I have,” Theron said. “Nothing.”
“Any personal feuds?” Renzo pressed. “Anyone looking to get even with you?”
“I’m not popular,” was the only comment. “It could be anyone.”
Phaira leaned over to murmur in Renzo’s ear. “Maybe we should we ask Anandi to look into –“
“No,” Theron interrupted. “I want to keep the circle tight. You talk to no one.”
Phaira’s temper flared. Why was he being such a pain? She had never seen him like this before. Sure, he was obnoxious that first night by the cliffs, when he was half drunk, but he wasn’t malicious.
Control, she told herself. Stay focused on the business at hand. He is your charge.
“Well, you might refuse to go into hiding, but you can’t stay in this apartment,” Phaira announced, rising to her feet. “There’s only one exit, too many blind spots, not to mention your building’s security system is outdated. Locks and cameras aren’t going to be enough. You need to be in a place where I can see you, at all times. Do you have any other properties? Any safe houses?”
“Not anymore.”
Was he talking about the apartment in Liera, or the house in the cliffs in Karum? Were they both gone?
“The Arazura,” Renzo broke in. “You should come onto the Arazura.”
“Into your home?” Theron exclaimed.
Renzo shrugged. “It’s mobile, which is better than here. And you know the design: top-of-the-line security measures.” He turned to Phaira. “He can conduct meetings remotely, and we can scramble the cc so it can’t be traced. Maybe CaLarca can put some kind of field or protection around the space.”
Phaira didn’t know what to say to that. There was something perverse about Theron staying on the Arazura; his fingerprints were already all over the ship, having secretly helped with its construction in a strange attempt to ‘evaluate’ her and her brothers months ago.
“That’s not possible,” Theron said quietly, surprising them all. “In fact, none of this is right. But I can’t spend any more time on this. I have a function to attend."
“A function?” Renzo asked, wrinkling his brow. “What is that code for?"
“Charitable fundraiser.” There was a faint smirk on Theron’s face, the first shade of the man Phaira remembered. “Jetsun is a philanthropist. In one hour, there’s a very important gathering of people, in a very expensive ballroom in the city, and if I don’t show up, she’ll take my head off.”
“Well,” Phaira said. “I guess that’s my first test.” Already, her mind was whirring; what she should bring, what she should research, what she should prepare herself for…
“You’re not coming,” Theron interrupted her thoughts.
Phaira glared at him. “I’m your bodyguard. Watch me.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking."
“Again, wrong,” Phaira sniped. “I want to lure this person out. If I’m with you in public, that’s more likely to happen, isn’t it?”
“You want to get attacked?”
“How else can I get a real sense of the situation?”
“Do you have a date?” CaLarca’s voice startled them all. She’d been silent since they sat down, only her eyes following the conversation.
Theron’s face darkened again. “There’s a woman that Bianco -” He paused for just a half-second before continuing. “Who was prearranged to accompany me.”
“I see,” CaLarca said. “I think you should take me, instead.”
Renzo and Phaira were speechless. Theron looked like he might be physically sick.
“Let me explain,” CaLarca said smoothly. “Phaira is your bodyguard; therefore, all eyes will be on her, because everyone knows that your guards have been targeted. That leaves their thoughts, their fears, and their secrets open and vulnerable, which I can sense if I am by your side. If someone is behind this, and actively plotting, I can use Eko to overhear it.”
She turned to Renzo. “And Renzo can monitor the exits and security cameras in the safety of the Arazura, and warn us if there is any suspicious activity.”
Theron’s jaw worked. Phaira could sense his frustration; he was trying to think of something to counter the argument. But Phaira couldn’t deny that it was a good plan, and she knew he couldn’t either.
“I think you should do it,” Renzo confirmed.
“There’s a certain code of behavior expected at these events,” Theron finally said.
“I can perform accordingly,” CaLarca said. “A hired escort is always more efficient, is it not?”
Her cool logic was unnerving.
“I’ll need something to wear, of course,” she added.
“Jetsun can courier over something to wear,” Theron said. “For both of you.”
“I’m not wearing a ballgown,” Phaira announced.
As soon as she spoke, a flush crept up the back of her neck. The first and only time she’d worn one, it was a borrowed gown: a silver-gray, strapless piece that was too big in the chest and threatened to slip down with every step. Theron had seen it; he said that it didn’t suit her, she remembered, in the brief, tense moments at that party in Honorwell.
“No,” Theron said. “No, nothing like that.”
* * *
Within thirty minutes, a courier was in the lobby. In addition to a dress bag for CaLarca, Jetsun had sent over clothes for Phaira: white leggings, with leather strips and netting making subtle patterns in the fabric; a matching white jacket, slim and sharp, with folds along the shoulders; a dark silver camisole for underneath. Expensive, but practical for mobility, and fancy enough to fit into a formal event. Phaira was grateful that the woman didn’t send her something awful and gaudy.
Then again, she mused, if this was Jetsun’s fundraiser, she will want everything to be perfect, and for everyone to be in their appropriate place. And the white's a conscious choice.
If I'm the bodyguard to a syndicate man, then I have to look like one.
Phaira dressed quickly in Theron’s bedroom, changing behind the half-closed door. A small mirror hung on the wall. Catching sight of her reflection, she slicked her hair back so it was off her face. Some pieces curled around her ears and throat; it was getting longer. She hadn’t had it cut in ages. It was almost lying smooth now, like when she was in the army. Her eyes were large and glittering in the darkness, her mouth a smudge of shadow.
CaLarca soon emerged from the washroom. She wore a collar of silver leaves, open at the base of her throat. Her body a narrow black column and her shoulders exposed, her collarbones highlighted by her braids twisted at the back of her head. There was no sign of her leg braces underneath the gown, though she held her cane still, and leaned on it heavily. But she was stunning, and everyo
ne in the apartment was surprised to see it.
She’ll fit in easily, Phaira realized. In fact, CaLarca and Theron looked good together. He was in all black as well, a slim-cut suit with no lapels, his grey wool overcoat and leather gloves already on, his hair neatly tied back. Still striking. Dammit.
“Are we ready?” CaLarca asked.
From afar, Phaira saw the struggle in Theron’s face, and wondered if he were to attack CaLarca, what she would do in response. And vice versa. Finally, he opened the front door. Holding the edge, he curtly gestured for CaLarca to go. She glided past him into the hallway.
Maybe if we are lucky, Phaira thought, people will mistake Theron’s hatred of his date for sexual tension.
“Are you coming?” Theron’s voice broke into her thoughts.
“What can I carry into this place?” she asked under her breath.
He understood what she meant, though his expression remained cold. “No guns allowed. Jetsun’s rule.” Then Theron’s gaze went to the katana, displayed on his apartment wall. “Your choice,” he added, before turning crisply on his heel and exiting.
With a sigh, Phaira walked over to the wall and removed the blade. Still sharp, still light as she remembered, from back in the house on the cliffs. When she slid it into the black sheath, there was a faint, whispering sound as they came together. A strange comfort, somehow, held horizontally in her hand. Familiar.
She touched her finger to the Lissome piece, affixed just under her ear. “Heading out, Ren.”
“I’m here,” came his response. “I’m watching.”
* * *
When they entered the ballroom, the crowd shushed. As Theron walked, his face dark, with CaLarca’s hand in the crook of his elbow, whispers floated behind their backs. Though Theron ignored every curious face, CaLarca smiled at the onlookers. Her face changed when she smiled, Phaira noted, it was luminous. Her cane swung like a natural limb, an elegant accessory.
By comparison, Phaira remained six feet behind, taking in the scene: black, silver, gold, glitter, floor-length silken gowns, sharp lapels, plunging necklines. She looked for any sign of bulkiness under jackets, any tiny squares or devices hidden under great towers of hair. The cloying smell of flowers and vanilla, the sounds of a string orchestra in the background. Chandeliers glittered overhead, highlighting the floor-to-ceiling windows with stained-glass designs. Staff dressed in black and white ducked in and out of the space.
And there was Jetsun in the middle of it all. The skirt of her white dress was voluminous, but her sleeveless top was composed of pearls, looping around her neck and shoulders, and then drooping in rows all the way down her naked back. Her hair had been teased to great height at the front, then slicked into a series of completed twists and knots at the back. Her mouth was red and laughing, as she held a glass of champagne to her lips.
Then she caught sight of Theron, Phaira and CaLarca.
Setting down her glass, she eyed the group with interest. Then she approached with hips swinging.
When she arrived, Theron leaned over so she could kiss the air next to his cheek. Her mountain of hair never moved, Phaira noted. It was impressive.
Jetsun surveyed CaLarca. “Hm,” was her only remark.
“You look very nice,” she told Theron. “Stay for one hour, and then you can go.”
Then, surprisingly, Jetsun embraced Phaira. Her warm perfume, peach and plum notes, was a stark contrast to her icy whisper in Phaira's ear: “No fidgeting.”
“I didn’t realize we were so close,” Phaira said wryly as they pulled apart.
“I’m showing my public approval, you twit,” Jetsun smiled, taking her hand. “And my gratitude.”
“Oh, is that it?” Phaira said, itching to yank her fingers away. “Will the rest of your clan feel the same way, I wonder?”
“No one will give you trouble,” Jetsun said, casting a bright grin at someone in the distance.
Is she that powerful? Phaira wondered, fighting the urge to inspect her surroundings. Maybe she’s the real head of the syndicate, not Theron…
“Tomorrow morning,” Jetsun said through her smiling teeth. “I’ll expect you at my office to talk strategy. In the meantime, don’t be alone with him.”
And before Phaira could respond, Jetsun released her hand and flounced away, her dress swished across the ballroom floor, the pearls making gentle clicking noises.
At her movement, music began to play again, a slow, romantic waltz. Couples paired off. Phaira remained on the edge, by the round tables, as Theron took CaLarca’s hand and drew her into the center of the dance floor.
“Do you recognize her?” Phaira heard the whispers all around. “Where does he find these girls?” “Ten rana says this one doesn’t last the night.” She listened as she catalogued the world before her, around her, above her. Any of these eyes on her back could be affixing a target. There was something thrilling about it. She had no doubt that, whoever this assailant was, she could handle them. And the sooner this was resolved, the better.
“Would you like to sit down?”
At the voice, Phaira glanced to her right. Sitting at the nearest round table, the elderly woman glittered with diamonds, her white hair combed back in a dramatic sweep. She gestured at Phaira to join her.
Phaira shook her head. “Working.” She placed her hand on the hilt of her katana, strapped to her waist.
“I see that,” the woman said. “You’re the new bodyguard.”
Phaira said nothing, keeping her eyes on Theron’s broad back. He was a lousy dancer, she noted with amusement, mostly just rocking back and forth with stiff legs. When he turned, she could see the delicate line of CaLarca’s exposed spine, and his tense hand, holding court just below her ribs. Their lips were moving, first Theron, then CaLarca’s. Phaira could see the veins in his throat.
Then they separated. Audible murmurs rose as Theron cut through the crowd, leaving CaLarca on the floor.
He was headed straight for Phaira.
She lifted her chin and held her breath, staring him down as he approached, ready for the confrontation.
He didn’t acknowledge her, though, as he slid into a chair at the table. “Hello,” he said, flashing a smile across the table at the diamond woman. “Can I sit here?”
“Oh!” the woman gasped, delighted by the attention. “How lovely. Of course, Mr. Sava.”
“Having a wonderful time?” There was mockery in the way he said those words.
Phaira fought the urge to sigh, and kept her gaze on the dance floor. CaLarca had been taken up by another man; that familiar, pinched look was back on her face.
“It’s breathtaking,” the woman was saying. “Ms. Jetsun has such a talent.”
“Indeed she does,” Theron said. “Don’t you think so, Phaira?”
Phaira ignored him.
“I must say, Mr. Sava,” the woman whispered, a delighted lilt in her voice. “It’s surprising that you are working with a woman protector. However did you come across her?”
“Oh, her?” His tone was light and playful, utterly different from the one Phaira knew. “We used to date.”
Phaira smirked at that, despite her better instincts.
“Really!” the woman exclaimed with delight.
“Oh yes,” Theron said, leaning back like a lord. “A long time ago.”
Phaira felt his shoulder near her hip. On purpose?
“And you’re still able to work together?” The question was ripe with curiosity. “How special!”
“In-deed.” The word was drawn out, a sly note in the syllables. Phaira gritted her teeth.
“Since you brought it to light, I must ask,” the woman continued eagerly. “Why did you break up?”
At the edge of her vision, Phaira saw Theron’s arm move. She heard the tiniest rustle from under the table. Then she stiffened as his fingers grazed the outside of her knee.
“Why do you think?” he murmured over his shoulder, up to her.
He was trying to
embarrass her. He was trying to make her react.
As his fingertips made lazy patterns along the back of her thigh, Phaira turned her head.
“Bad timing,” she told the woman coolly.
Theron gave an amused hmph! The heat of his hand receded.
The woman looked confused. Then she nodded, her lips pursed, as if she understood. “Oh yes,” she agreed. “Timing is everything in life, isn’t it? One opportunity, there and gone - "
“If you’ll excuse us,” Phaira interrupted. “Mr. Sava is required elsewhere.”
“Am I?” Theron asked, leaning his head back and grinning up at her.
It was too much. “Get up,” she ordered.
“You dare to speak to me like that?” Theron drawled.
“That and more,” Phaira hissed. “Now, before I make a scene.”
Chuckling, Theron unfolded his long body from his seat. When he stood upright, he loomed over everyone in the room. “Excuse me,” he told the woman. “My girl is upset with me.”
Furious, Phaira grabbed his elbow and steered him through the tables to where she’d seen the signs for private washrooms. She heard his voice trailing behind her, addressing the shocked onlookers: “This is why you don’t hire a woman for this kind of thing….”
Inside the lavatory, a couple leapt away from each other, half-undressed, as Phaira shoved Theron through the door.
“Out!” Phaira hollered at them.
The couple quickly adjusted straps and buttons, and ran out of the space.
As the door swung shut, Theron sauntered across the red carpet, past the great, gilded mirror and chaise lounge, to take a seat in a plush red chair. “If you can’t handle your charge, maybe you should just cut and run,” he announced, in that infuriating, smirky tone.
Phaira dead-bolted the door and whirled around to glare at him. “Stop it.” She jabbed a finger in his direction. “Stop acting like a brat to push me away.”
His features twisted. “Then stop playing games with me."
“Me?” Phaira exclaimed. “Who’s acting like a complete - "
“I know who you work for, Phaira.” His tone was bitter. “What does Ozias want you to bring back? I’ll just tell you what you need to know, save you the trouble of pretending any longer.”