Trail of Lightning (The Sixth World #1)(65)

I lean into Kai. The music has actually lessened a little, and we can speak at a normal volume, but I’m wary of the Sticking-Up-Ears spies in our midst, so I keep it to a whisper. “Do I seem different to you?”

“Hmm?”

“With that medicine on your eyes. Am I—?” I stop. I know I should be focused on finding Mósí, but I need to know. I need to know if stripped of illusion, Kai can see the real me. And if he can, is it monstrous? Is the evil there, like the taint Neizghání warned me about?

But I can’t quite bring myself to ask it, sure that I already know the truth.

Kai catches the bartender’s attention and signals for a drink, then looks at me expectantly. I shake my head. Kai drops one of the half-dozen bronze rings he’s wearing on his pinkie finger on the bar as trade and then turns to hand me a long thin glass of tequila. I open my mouth to protest when he whispers, “You don’t have to drink it. Just pretend like you are, and try to relax. You look like you’re about to shoot someone.” He says it all through a smile as he sips from his glass, scanning the crowd.

I realize he’s not oblivious to the stares he’s getting at all. He’s on alert, just like I am. The thought relaxes me a little and I take the glass, pretend to take a sip. The raw fumes get in my nose and I gag. Tequila has never been my drink.

“You want to know how you look?” he asks me.

My heart speeds up. He did hear me when I asked. I nod. Hold my breath.

“Like a monsterslayer.” He gives a little salute with his glass and downs the tequila in a shot.

I frown. “What does that mean?”

He signals the bartender for another drink. Gets it and immediately slams the tequila in one swallow. Wipes at his mouth and says, “What do you think it means?”

“Are you saying I don’t look any different?”

“Do I?” He tilts his head, gives me a twisted kind of smile. I’m not sure, but I think he’s drunk, or at least on his way.

“Do you think that much tequila is a good idea right now?”

“Absolutely not,” he admits as he motions to the bartender for another.

“Then what are you doing?”

“Dying,” he mutters, so low I’m not sure I heard him right.

“You’re what?”

He turns abruptly, eyes bright and focused on me. “You didn’t answer my question, Mags.”

“What question?” In my irritation, I’ve already forgotten what he asked me.

“Do I look any different?” he says again. He holds his arms out, on display.

I won’t admit it to him, but he looks better. His skin seems to glow bronze and his eyes have turned an otherworldly silver, hard to look at. The curve of his jaw is stronger, more elegant, and he radiates a kind of charisma, an impossible attraction, beyond even what he had before. It’s almost preternatural. No, not almost. It is.

“You look the same to me,” I lie.

He nods, earrings flashing, like he knows exactly what I’m seeing and what I’m thinking and that I’m not telling the truth. He drops his empty glass on the bar. “See, Monsterslayer? We’re all liars.”

I have no idea what to say to that. “What’s going on, Kai?” I ask. “What’s gotten into you?”

He shakes his head, almost sad. “Let’s just find this Mósí and get out of here,” he says, a shiver rattling his whole body. “This place is messing with my head.”

I don’t disagree with that.

He straightens. “I’m going to go explore a bit. See what I can find out.”

“We should stick together,” I protest, thinking of those greedy eyes on him.

“No. There’s . . . It would be better if I go alone.” He laughs, and I catch a burst of liquor on his breath. “No one’s going to talk to me with you stalking around like you’re going to stick a knife in them. Let me go alone. I’ll be back.”

“I don’t think—”

“I can take care of myself, remember?”

I’m not happy about it, but I let it go. He’s a grown man and I’m not going to argue with him.

“Fine,” I agree. He leans in, his lips brushing my cheek. I tense as the conflicting mix of cedar and alcohol floods my nose.

“To your left,” he murmurs, hot breath on my ear before he steps away. He doesn’t look back and soon he’s lost in the crowd, as much as someone like him can be. I wait a few seconds before looking to my left. I spot what he wanted me to see immediately. Football-player proportions with a shock of red hair. What is he doing here?

Hovering at the edge of the crowd, with a somewhat sheepish grin, is Clive. He’s wearing a Western-style suit and bolo tie, the suit cut too tight for his big frame and solid muscle, and in an unflattering shade of brown. But it kind of works in a Rambo meets Howdy Doody kind of way.

“I kind of expected better,” I tease as I walk up, gesturing at his outfit, “considering what you whipped up for me.”

He shrugs and straightens his bolo. “I can’t find much in my size besides fatigues.”

“I’d be happy to trade up. I bet you’d look great in a halter top.” I ask the obvious question. “What are you doing here? You come to check on my hair?”