He’d called them dirty Believers.
Her father lived in infamy for some parts of this city, and she was wearing his ring. With the man’s accusation, the bar had gone silent. Ready to snap. Thiyo was standing now. Everyone was watching, waiting for one of them to move.
So much for being inconspicuous.
The stranger spit on the ground, his eyes still on her ring, and said something. Ev only realized he’d said I don’t like to hit women when his fist came barreling toward her face.
She dodged. Apparently his reservations about hitting women weren’t that strong. He brought his other fist around, but Ev was faster. She brought her fist up into his stomach, then dumped the remainder of her drink over his head while he was doubled over.
He thought her father was a traitor. A murderer. He thought she was a traitor. It was the same damn fight she’d been having since the village schoolyard, only now she knew the truth behind the taunts. It made her want to hit harder.
No one moved, but Thiyo was poised to run. That was probably their best option. But when Ev took a step toward the street, chairs scraped against the stone floor as every man in the bar stood at once.
She glanced at Thiyo. They weren’t getting out so easily. She wanted to tell him to flee, but he wouldn’t understand, and besides, where would he go by himself? How would he find the others without her? She hoped he was ready.
Her first attacker began to lift his dripping head. She kneed him in the stomach to keep him down and he crumpled to the floor, but bared his teeth at her. It didn’t matter if she took him down, and he knew it. There were at least eight men standing, far more than she and Thiyo could take—even if he was as quick as her.
“Yengeti u te ngelu,” she said to her attacker, because her Adpri might be poor but Obin had taught her how to curse. Sit in a fire was the beginning of such a well-known phrase that she didn’t need to add “mba yederum uvesa gomb” because anyone would know the ending. But the fight was inevitable, so she said it anyway, just for the pleasure of spitting it out. And burn your balls off.
A man grabbed her from behind. She elbowed him in the stomach, then grabbed the chair she’d been sitting on and swung it into his legs. He let go of her neck, but she held onto the chair, swinging it at the next assailant and trying to clear a space around herself. Thiyo was struggling, surrounded by three men, so Ev bashed one with the chair, cracking the wooden dowels of the chairback over his shoulders. She threw the remainder of the chair at the second man and barreled into the third, giving Thiyo a chance to fight free.
He got a few steps toward the door. Unfortunately, Ev had inspired some of the others to pick up chairs, and while she was watching Thiyo, one of them hit her in the back. She staggered, her head and shoulders stinging, and before she could round on him, Thiyo was between them, socking the man in the jaw. He wrung his hand afterward, grimacing at the pain. Thiyo’s spectacularly timed but poorly executed punch gave Ev the instant she needed to kick the man in the stomach. When he went down, she clamped her hand around Thiyo’s and they ran.
They ran until they couldn’t see the bar, and by that point they were lost and people were staring. Ev slowed down and slipped into a crowd. Or not a crowd, but a queue full of people waiting to go into a theater. She could see from the posters hanging to either side of the entryway that there was some kind of dance performance about to happen inside. The people who thought she and Thiyo were cutting in line gave them dirty looks. Ev drew him to the side, pretended to look at the poster, then bent over and panted. Thiyo was out of breath, too. With his hands on his knees, she could see his bloody knuckles.
“You don’t know how to throw a punch,” Ev said, still short of breath. She mimed a punch so he’d understand. She’d thought the slick on her hand was sweat, but looking down, it was sweat and blood together. She wiped it on her new trousers, regretting the stain it would leave.
Thiyo raised an eyebrow at her.
A good point. She was being ungrateful. “Thank you, though, really. I’ll teach you so you’ll be better prepared next time. It won’t hurt so much.”
She drew the map out of her pocket and studied it. It wasn’t detailed enough to be helpful. She offered it to Thiyo and he looked around, then took her by the hand and led her away from the theater. Walking, not running, didn’t draw much attention. And it allowed them to take their time.
It took the better part of an hour before they found The Crooked Column. It was crowded inside, much dimmer and noisier than the bar where they’d been attacked. It took Ev a moment to spot Ifeleh, keeping her head down and drinking in silence. She was alone. She’d dressed in green, and her dress had a high neck and long, tight sleeves that extended all the way to the base of her thumbs. A strange choice for a warm underground city, but a quick survey of The Crooked Column showed that Ifeleh was not the only one who’d opted for this style. With her hand wrapped around her glass and tucked close to her, her brand was impossible to see.
Ev approached her as casually as possible. She ordered two more glasses of the fizzy drink, passed one to Thiyo, and said nothing. A long time passed before Ifeleh spoke.
“I told you to be inconspicuous and you started a fight,” she said, her voice low and angry.
Ev ought to apologize or explain, but she was still buzzing with the thrill of escaping. She grinned, knowing her teeth were still bloody. She’d been answering this one her whole life. “I don’t start fights.”
“Funny, then, how you ended up—”
“I finish them.”
Ifeleh made a stern, disapproving noise and passed her a room key. Ev didn’t take it too hard. Her aunt sounded just like her father, trying to issue a reprimand and repressing a smile at the same time. “True Sons?” she asked, her voice even quieter. That was the name of the faction that supported Usmam Umarsad.
“I think so,” Ev said, rubbing her thumb over her ring.
“For future reference, before you walk through a doorway here, you should check to see if there are symbols painted or carved outside. If you see a cross or a teardrop, it’s probably safe.” Ifeleh paused. “Or a knife through a heart, I suppose.”
Ev had noticed a small carving to the right side of the entrance of The Crooked Column as they’d come in. Two diagonal lines intersecting each other. A cross. “What does the cross mean?”
“Neutral space,” Ifeleh said. “The owner here doesn’t tolerate fights, so don’t get any ideas. We didn’t pick this place for its luxury.”
Ev had been inside for ten minutes and she already knew that. Her glass was smudged. There were cobwebs in every corner. “Emi wanted to meet you in a neutral space? Why not a place with a teardrop—that’s for Believers, right?”
“Keep it down,” Ifeleh said. “The owner doesn’t tolerate fights inside, but that won’t help if someone drags you into the street. This place is always crowded, and there are lots of rooms. They won’t look too closely at anyone’s hand as long as it’s full of coin. That’s why we’re here. Now, where were you when you got into trouble? I need to know in case it comes back to me.”
Ev thought back to the bar and described its location. “There was a mural on that same street.” She hadn’t thought its placement was meaningful. But there had been a mark on one of the bar’s outside columns, now that she thought about it. “And I did see some carvings. I think there was a teardrop. Or three teardrops. It should have been safe, right?”
“A mural,” Ifeleh said. She seemed to have guessed what it depicted without being told. “And no. There’s only one teardrop in the symbol. What you saw in that carving with three shapes, those were flames. A splinter group of True Sons that calls themselves Firestarters. Don’t go into those spaces unless you’re looking for a fight.”
Ev never went looking for a fight, but she’d remember the symbol. She didn’t want to repeat the experience. “They weren’t very friendly.”
“But neither are you,” Ifeleh said. Her aunt was a hard woman to please,
but Ev sensed satisfaction in her expression.
Ev was bizarrely cheerful after a fight that had made him feel like his body wanted to turn itself inside out, and after chatting with her aunt, she caught his bloody-knuckled hand and tugged him up the stairs to the room they’d been assigned. She directed him to sit on the bed, which he did without complaint or resistance, because ten men had nearly beaten them to death not an hour ago and then Ev had bought him a celebratory drink and he was lightheaded and dazed. There was a wash basin in the corner and she dipped a washcloth into it. She knelt at his feet. Had it not occurred to her how suggestive such a position was? Or perhaps it had, but she knew he couldn’t say anything filthy about it. Was she daring him to try?
He had no idea which it was, or which he preferred, and Ev gave no indication. She sat and methodically cleaned the blood from his hands, dabbing the washcloth over his knuckles, taking extra care with the crooked fingers of his right.
Even if he could have said something, Thiyo wouldn’t have spoken. Things were delicate between them. She knew—had known, had to have known—how he felt. He knew she’d kissed him in a moment of high emotion, and nothing else. Was there more? He wouldn’t push her. She would come to him by her own choice or not at all.
She stood and drew him up with her. Then she circled him. He held as still as a prey animal. What was she doing? When she was behind him, she held him gently by the shoulders. Then she thrust one foot in between his, forcing his feet apart until they were wider than his shoulders. She pushed her toes underneath his left heel and slid his left leg forward, and he bent his knee and shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. Her attention switched to his arms, which she pulled up, bending them at the elbows until his hands were above his shoulders. Thiyo still had no idea what she was doing, but he let her move him around like a rag doll. She reached under his left arm and around his waist with her right, taking hold of his hand and folding it into a fist, leaving his thumb outside his first two fingers.
Ah. The strange activity crystallized at last. Ev had observed him during the fight and found his technique wanting.
With anyone else, this much physical closeness would have been a transparent seduction. So obvious as to be a joke. Body to body, her arms around his waist, close enough to hear breath and pulse alike. She had her chin over his shoulder—a slight change in angle and her lips would touch his neck.
But Ev wanted to teach him how to throw a punch.
She was maddeningly sincere. As if Thiyo could think about anything other than their kiss in the cave when they were this close. He was a terrible student, even beyond his inability to understand verbal instructions. He watched her demonstrate a few punches, attentive to the play of muscles beneath her lustrous brown skin. When it came time for him to imitate, he had no idea what qualities she sought in a punch. He had no interest in finding out. Boring things, punches. He liked watching Ev distribute them well enough, but his hands were meant for other occupations.
Her expression made clear that his attempts weren’t impressive. She provided more demonstrations, and more hands-on adjustments, and eventually her frustration lost its charm. Thiyo relented and paid real attention, since she wasn’t going to give up until he made progress. This proved to be a mistake. Once he’d provided a few credible punches at the air, Ev stood in front of him and gestured for him to hit her.
Absurd. He refused.
Ilyr had tried to teach him swordplay, but Thiyo hadn’t been good at that, either. In truth, they hadn’t done much fighting. It had mostly been an excuse for them to be alone together with lots of touching, which Thiyo was perfectly fine with. That was a lovely way to pass the time, provided both parties were aware of the unspoken agreement.
No such agreement governed this interaction, as much as Thiyo wished it did. He had no desire to hit Ev. He didn’t want to get into a fight ever again. Wishful thinking, given the course his life had taken. Not to mention “ever again” felt vanishingly short. What kind of future would there be, if they couldn’t stop Iriyat? And if they could?
Thiyo couldn’t allow himself to think it, both because it was terrifying and because Ev was driving her fist toward his face. Panic swarmed him, mind and body, and he leapt backwards. Their room was small, just a square space with a bed in the center and a stand for the wash basin in the corner. Thiyo was in the narrow alley to the side of the bed. Ev advanced on him. She didn’t look angry. Her fists weren’t up. Instead, her arms were out to her sides, palms up, inviting him to retaliate.
Fine. He aimed for her stomach, unable to handle the thought of hitting her in the face. She blocked both of his attempts and beamed at him all the while. If he could have dredged up the words, he would have said, I hate this. I hate you. She’d said as much to him when they’d met. But the words weren’t there, so instead he tried again.
Sparring with Ev overtook his thoughts. She danced him all over the room, blocking or avoiding every strike he aimed at her and never countering with one of her own. He shouldn’t have worried about hitting her. He couldn’t if he tried, as he was proving minute by minute. Ev was agile.
She stopped moving. It took him by surprise, as did his fist connecting with her ribcage. She’d let him land the hit, that much was clear. Thiyo recoiled. Had he hurt her? He dropped his arms to his sides and leaned in, scrutinizing the place he’d hit. Her laugh startled him. So did her hands on his shoulders and her lips on his.
Finally.
Thiyo might not have had Ev’s agility in a fight, but he was a quick study, and he didn’t intend to waste this opportunity. He’d given up on pursuit, but now that she was here, he could provide a damn good reason for her to come back in the future. Her mouth was honey-sweet, and his tongue was still good for something. There was so much he hadn’t told her. The full bow of her lips. The shell of her ear. The arch of her back when he nipped her earlobe. Heat rolled through him as she pressed against him.
He navigated them to the bed, walking her back until her legs the mattress, then guiding her down. He ignored his body’s urgent clamor and took his time, giving every motion its due, almost as though he were demonstrating for some future practice. Every questing touch awaited its answering shiver or sigh. Ev had to want this—no, not this, but him. He was achingly hard, but he had to be sure. He couldn’t settle for some tumble she’d later regret, a hurried fuck in the heat of the moment. Thiyo didn’t intend to replace Alizhan in Ev’s affections, but he didn’t want to be nothing more than a warm body in her absence. He grabbed the bottom hem of Ev’s tunic, lifted it a handspan, and stopped. Thiyo had survived weeks of wanting, maybe months, and he would want for longer if he had to. The world might be ending, but there was no rush.
Ev put her hand over his and pulled. Together, they lifted the tunic over her shoulders. Thiyo dropped it on the bed. He shed his own clothes without a thought, and when he’d finished, Ev was naked as well. Sitting on the edge of the bed, looking up at him as he stood between her knees, she didn’t look nearly as shy as he’d imagined—and he’d imagined often enough. Her eyes were dark with desire, her gaze half-lidded but focused, and her attention glided down his body so brazenly that she almost succeeded, for the first time in all his life, in making him blush. He shivered. That look alone was better than anything he’d imagined. She parted her lips, then grabbed him by the neck and pulled him down into a kiss.
The kiss was a wonder, a blessing, a confirmation of everything he wanted. Lust raced through him and he clenched his eyes shut trying to slow its progress. He came up for air a moment later, one hand still buried in her short, soft hair. He’d seen Ev naked before, but he’d never been invited to look. He curved his other hand around the fullness of one breast, lifting the warm weight of it and rubbing his thumb over the brown peak of her nipple. Below that, her abdomen rippled with muscle before softening into the width of her hips and her glorious, powerful thighs.
He’d never had sex without talking. Of course, he’d rarely done anything in h
is life without talking until a few weeks ago, but the lack pained him more in this moment. She was so beautiful. Someone should tell her.
He dropped to his knees and did his best.
23
Foreign Agent
The knock came when Ev was tangled up in sleepy languor with Thiyo, and she resented it. But she dutifully extricated herself, dressed, and went down to meet Ifeleh’s contact in the bar. Thiyo came with her.
Eminyela Ulachiru was about the same age as Ifeleh, but the similarities ended there. She was short and soft-figured, without the edge of violence underlying every movement she made, and her hair fell down her back in many long, thin braids. Ill at ease in the bar, she still hugged Ifeleh and put a smile on her face for Ev and Thiyo. She introduced her son, Sanno, a young man with his braids pulled back into a twist and a large pair of spectacles. Almost no one wore them in Laalvur, but Ev had seen lots of bespectacled Adpri citizens. It must be all the reading. Sanno had the same air of kindness about him as his mother. He was a little taller than her, but he didn’t have the physique or the carriage of someone who got into a lot of fights. Ev wondered how they’d gotten mixed up in something that required the intervention of a smuggler.
She didn’t understand the word that Eminyela used to describe her son. From context, it must be something he did, possibly as a profession. “Efepu? I’m sorry, my Adpri isn’t that good.”
“The Leader’s own granddaughter, a foreign agent,” Sanno murmured, a private joke. He knew who she was somehow. Ev hadn’t introduced herself with her last name and she’d slipped her father’s ring off her finger and into a pocket. She didn’t want to hide, but she didn’t want the people around her to get attacked, either. Regardless, her efforts were wasted here. These people knew Ifeleh. Either she’d told them or they’d guessed from the family resemblance.
Shadebloom Page 20