Chapter 1: Interest Accrues
The crow should have tipped you off.
You noticed it on the way in: a sleek black thing perched on a broken signal tower above the Onychinus warehouse, red light glowing faintly where an eye should be. You noticed it and decided it was decoration. N109 was full of decoration. Half the buildings out here had a gargoyle bolted on, or a neon skull, or a mural of somebody's dead gang leader painted twenty feet high. A mechanical crow with a red eye looked like more of the same.
It took you eleven minutes to get through the vault door, which was a personal record, and forty seconds to find the case your client wanted, matte black and the size of a hardcover book, sitting alone on a shelf like it was waiting for you. You were out the back and over the wall in under fifteen. On the way out you saluted the crow, because you were pleased with yourself.
The crow tilted its head and watched you go.
That was Tuesday.
On Thursday, two men came into your repair stall in Linkon's Lower Market wearing identical smiles.
They were twins, obviously, one in a cap, one with his hair falling into his eyes, and they had the loose, pleasant manner of people who could kill you with a screwdriver from your own workbench and would feel bad about the mess afterward. The one in the cap picked up a disassembled comm unit from your counter and turned it over with real interest.
"Nice soldering," he said. "Clean. You do this by hand?"
"I do," you said, and moved your foot an inch toward the button under the counter that would drop the shutter.
"Don't," said the other twin kindly. "Kieran'll just lift it. He gets bored when people make him lift things."
"I really do," agreed Kieran.
"Who's asking?" you said, though by then you knew. There was only one outfit in N109 that sent people around to be this polite.
The first twin smiled wider. "I'm Luke. That's my brother. The boss would like a word about some property of his that went missing on Tuesday." He set the comm unit down exactly where he'd found it. "He said to tell you that you can come with us now, or you can come with us later, but that later involves the crow following you to the bathroom for a week, and he's not sure either of you wants that."
The Onychinus headquarters in daylight was a different animal from the warehouse you'd hit. It sat on the edge of N109 where the old industrial district gave way to cracked plazas and dead fountains, a tall, black-glass building with no sign on it and no visible door handles. Inside, it was quiet. Thick carpet. Warm low lighting. The smell of expensive leather and something faintly metallic, like the air after a lightning strike.
Luke and Kieran walked you up three flights of stairs and through a set of double doors and then, with a cheerful bow from Luke, left you there.
The office was huge and mostly dark. One wall was glass, looking out over N109 sprawling to the horizon under a sky the color of a bruise. There was a desk the size of a car. On the desk, in the pool of light from a single lamp, sat the black case you had stolen.
And behind the desk, in a high-backed chair, sat Sylus.
You had seen pictures, the way everyone in Linkon had seen pictures: grainy surveillance captures on the Hunter Association's warning boards, rumors passed around market stalls. None of them had been in focus. You understood why the second he looked up. He wasn't a man who stayed still long enough to be photographed. Even sitting, he looked like something that was choosing not to move.
Silver-white hair, swept back and falling over his forehead. A long black coat with the collar turned up, open over a dark shirt, a red stone glinting at his throat. And his eyes. Red. Not reddish, not some trick of the lamp. Red the way a coal is red when you blow on it.
The crow from the signal tower was perched on the back of his chair. It turned its glowing eye on you and made a small mechanical noise that sounded unmistakably smug.
"Mephisto says you saluted him," Sylus said.
His voice was low and unhurried, with a rasp in it, and it went straight down your spine like a fingertip.
"It seemed polite," you said.
"It was." He leaned back. "Nobody's saluted him before. He's been insufferable about it." He gestured to the chair across from the desk. "Sit down, sweetie. You look like you're about to bolt, and I've had a long morning. I don't want to chase you."
You sat. Not because he told you to, you told yourself. Because your legs were shaky, and pride was easier sitting down.
"How did you get it back?" you asked, nodding at the case.
"Your client," Sylus said, "was a man named Duvall. He runs guns out of the docks on the east side of Linkon and fancies himself a rival of mine, which is adorable. He hired you because you're very good and very cheap, and because you don't ask questions." He tapped the case with one finger. "He was also planning to have you shot at the handoff tonight. He doesn't like loose ends."
The floor felt like it tilted a degree.
"You're lying," you said.
"I don't, usually. It's inefficient." Sylus slid a tablet across the desk. On the screen was a chat log, timestamped, between two numbers. You recognized one as your client's burner. The other you didn't. The messages were short. Thief does the job. You pick up the case. Don't leave her breathing. Double rate.
You read it twice. Your mouth had gone dry.
"So," Sylus said, watching your face, "I took my property back from your locker at the train station last night, where you'd hidden it very cleverly, and I had Kieran pay a visit to the gentleman Duvall hired to shoot you. They've come to an understanding. He's moving to another city."
"Why?" you said.
Sylus tilted his head. The movement was exactly like the crow's.
"Why would you do that," you said. "I robbed you."
"You did." Something moved at the corner of his mouth. "Eleven minutes on my vault door. My people tell me it should take forty. I'd like to know how."
"Trade secret."
"I'd like to know how," he repeated pleasantly, "because I have use for someone who can do it in eleven. And because you owe me." He folded his hands on the desk. "The case is worth more than everything you'll make in that stall in a lifetime. Plus the trouble. Plus Mephisto's emotional distress."
The crow made the smug noise again.
"I don't have that kind of money," you said.
"I know. I'm not asking for money." Sylus rose. He was taller than you'd expected, and he came around the desk without hurry, the coat moving around him like something with a will of its own. He stopped in front of your chair and leaned back against the edge of the desk, close enough that his knee was nearly touching yours. You could smell him: smoke and cedar and that faint thunderstorm tang. "You'll work it off."
"Doing what?"
"Whatever I need." His gaze moved over your face, slow and frankly assessing, the way you'd look at a lock you were going to enjoy picking. "Duvall has something else of mine. Has had it for a long time. He keeps it in a private vault under his house in the Upper Ring, and he's throwing a gala there in three nights to show off how well he's doing. I want you inside. I want it back. I want him to know it was me."
"And after that?"
"After that, we'll see how much you still owe." The red eyes held yours. "I'll be honest with you, since it seems to unsettle you so much. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to hold your stall over your head or threaten your landlord or any of the other boring things Duvall would have done. If you walk out that door right now, Luke will drive you home and nobody will ever bother you again."
You stared at him.
"But you won't," Sylus said softly, "because you want to know what's in the vault. And because you're curious about me."
"I'm not."
"No?" He leaned down. One gloved hand came to rest on the arm of your chair, not touching you, just there. His face was very close. You could see now that his eyes weren't one solid red; they had depth to them, like a garnet held up to light. "Then tell me to back off, and I will."
You had a speech for situations like this. You'd given it to plenty of men in the Lower Market who'd leaned too close over your counter. It involved a soldering iron.
You opened your mouth to give it, and what came out was: "What's in the case?"
He laughed. It was low and surprised, as if you'd startled it out of him, and it changed his whole face. For a second he looked younger, almost delighted.
"There," he said. "That's the one." He straightened, and the absence of him leaning over you was like stepping out of a warm room into wind. "Curiosity. Good. Keep that. I'll show you what's in the case when you've earned it."
"That's not fair."
"I'm a criminal, sweetie." He returned to the desk and picked up the black case and tucked it under his arm. "Terms. You'll stay here until the gala. You need to learn Duvall's house, and I'm not having you go home where he can find you. There's a room on the floor below, with a lock on the inside. Kieran will bring your tools. Luke will bring you anything else you want, within reason, and outside reason if you ask nicely."
"And you?"
He paused at the door to an inner room. Looked back at you over his shoulder, the lamp catching the edge of his jaw.
"Me," Sylus said, "you'll have dinner with. Every night. That's my one condition."
"Why?"
"Because I want to." The corner of his mouth curved. "Because you'll be at Duvall's gala on my arm, as my companion, and nobody will believe it if you flinch every time I touch you." He let that hang, then added, more quietly, "And because I've been watching that crow's recording of you saluting him for two days, and I'd like to see what else you do."
The inner door closed behind him.
You sat alone in the dark office, with N109 glowing beyond the glass, your heart going hard and fast against your ribs, and realized three things at once.
One: you had not told him to back off.
Two: there was a lock on the inside of your room, and he'd made sure you knew it.
Three: you wanted, very badly, to know what it would feel like if he hadn't stopped.
From the back of the empty chair, Mephisto watched you with his single red eye, and made a small, knowing click.