Shadow's Claim (Immortals After Dark #13)(118)

From Bettina’s collar, Salem said, “First of all, Salem doesn’t walk. Second? I’d like to actually get into the bar sometime tonight. Third, I’d rather be the subject of a dirty limerick, preferably with the words rising tunic, dick, and lick.”

“How do we even know we’re in the right place?” Bettina asked. The two sorceresses were on a mission to find the soothsayer N?x the Ever-Knowing, who’d disappeared from Abaddon without a whisper. Salem was tagging along to meet with someone from his phantom network of spies—about a lead on the poisoning case.

The three had just been traced here by one of Rune’s guards, their designated demon for the night. He awaited them in the oyster-shell parking lot, smoking with other drivers.

Behind her wicked leather mask, Sabine rolled her tawny eyes. “Of course, we’re in the right place. N?x is leading the Vertas, and this is one of their haunts.” She lifted her face and delicately sniffed. “Can you not smell the self-righteousness of all those do-gooders inside?”

Sabine had joined the Vertas because of her adoring demon husband, King Rydstrom the Good; didn’t mean she had to be happy about it.

“How do I look?” Bettina asked. Knowing she might meet new allies, she’d taken care with her dress, wearing a slinky bandeau top of gold thread, a jade mask, and matching sarong. A pair of strappy gold sandals with blades in the heels—a new line!—completed the outfit.

For jewelry, she wore her crown, a collar, two armlets, a thighlet, and an anklet—all doubling as weapons.

This was her first return to the mortal realm, and she was prepared for anything, her heart-stopping power at the ready. . . .

Like a fool, Bettina also wore that necklace with Daciano’s wedding ring tucked down in her top. But, alas, her summoning medallion had gone the way of Salem’s copper bell, melted down, its control over her ending forever.

Chin raised imperiously, Sabine said, “You look passable—though not nearly as good as me.” Bettina’s great patroness wore a black miniskirt that matched her thigh-high boots and her mask. Atop her fiery red locks sat a blue-gold crown studded with gems, a present from Rydstrom. Sabine’s solid-gold bustier was engraved to look like dragon scales.

Not bad work, if I say so myself. Well, except for a minor nip slip or two. Or four.

Sabine narrowed her eyes. “Though I am the fairest, you really are wearing the better jewels. Is it wise to outshine your patroness, Queen of Hearts?” Shimmying, she tugged up her bustier. “And you two price-gouged me with this piece.”

“None doin’, Trixie.” Salem took his partnership in the biz very seriously. “We gave you a bang-up deal.”

“I suppose. If you like nip slips.” Sabine sighed, “And, let’s face it, I do.”

Salem said, “While you birds are arguing over who’s the fairest of them all, just know this: I am. Me and me swingin’ dick would put you two to shame. So if you ladies are done tarting yourselves up . . . ?”

“You’re fortunate that I like you,” Sabine began solemnly, “you price-gouging, foul-mouthed, sylphic man-slut. Ah, yes, I like these things about you indeed.” With that, she opened the door.

As they entered, all eyes turned to them: two former Pravus sympathizers in full Sorceri regalia and an invisible sylph.

Conversations halted midsentence. Even the old-fashioned jukebox ran out of quarters at that moment.

Crickets.

Haughty Sabine traipsed deeper inside; Bettina put her shoulders back and followed.

Once conversations and the music resumed, Bettina said, “Do you always get this reaction here?”

“Of course, it’s one of the reasons I continue to return,” Sabine said over one shoulder. “I think of it this way: they stare because fear; they fear because they respect.”

Bettina gazed around the place, supposing Erol’s had a certain charm. Other Loreans seemed to be enjoying themselves. In the back, a foursome of fey threw darts from a good thirty feet away, aiming for a board the diameter of a tankard.

At the bar, several twenty-something Lykae chugged whiskey. Their clothes were stained with mud and blood, and they tossed around a dirty rugby ball. A handsome, slightly older Lykae broke up any roughhousing with a threatening growl.

That jukebox didn’t play the music Bettina normally enjoyed, but at least she was out of the castle for a spell—away from things that reminded her of Daciano.

Such as, oh, everything.

When they passed a table full of nymphs, Salem took notice; Bettina’s collar started to thrum. “Been so long since I got laid, I’m goin’ to be revirginized,” he muttered.

She’d been trying to glean more about his predicament from the secretive sylph. From his offhanded comments, she’d begun to suspect that the phantom had either gotten caught stealing something very valuable—or that he’d scorned a very powerful female.

Still vibrating for the nymphs, he said, “If I didn’t have business to tend to, I’d just pop off for a spot of thigh diving and cleavage nesting. But then, that would be wrong. Wrong. Depraved, even. Immoral . . .”

Stifling a grin, Bettina scouted for the raven-haired Valkyrie. “I don’t see N?x.”

“We can at least get a lead on her whereabouts,” Sabine answered, her eyes alight with purpose. She was desperate to save her sister Melanthe from the Vrekeners. To that end, the sorceress was determined to find the soothsayer, so she could find . . . Daciano.