Page 8 of Tattletale

“Ha. I’m just better at my job than you. I’ve been here for less than thirty minutes, and I already have all the intel I need.”

“Being?” I ask, taking my hand back, as it’s uncomfortably close to the curve of her ass.

She uncrosses her legs, the slit of her dress landing in the center of her thighs. At this point, I can’t tell if this woman is interested in seducing me or killing me.

“My target’s not coming.”

“Who’s your target?”

She quirks a brow with a smirk on her face. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is this your first day on the job, Babyface?”

“Lancelot.”

“Ah,Lancelot.Where’s your sword and your noble steed?” She rolls her eyes. “Weak. I gave you my real name.”

I exhale. Against my better judgment, I add, “I was once a boy named Levi. His obituary was nine years ago. Reborn as Lancelot. You said Kezia was an honorary name. What’s the one on your death certificate? All assassins have to disappear one way or the other.”

“I’ve never lied about being dead.” Her eyes go misty. “There’s simply no one alive who’d know to look for me.”

I roll my eyes. Now, I’m annoyed that I gave her the upper hand. “Well, have a good evening, Kezia. Stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours. My target is in the back room.”

“Sylvie.” She holds out her hand. “Short for Silver. The very few people who know this version of me call me Sylvie. It’s the best I can do, Babyface.”

I shake her hand again. “Fine, then. Pleasure to meet you, Sylvie.”

Her plum-red lips spread into a wicked smile. “Now, how about a drink?”

“What’ll it cost me?”

She rakes the tips of her fingernails through my hair. “Information.”

I scoff. “Sober it is.”

“Maybe we can help each other.” She flutters her lashes at me. “It’s just a conversation.” She slides off her seat and makes her way around the bar. Once she’s standing in front of me, the bar counter between us, she asks, “What would you like?”

“Surprise me.”

“Can I make you my specialty?”

Now I’m skeptical. Usually, an assassin’s favorite drink to serve is poison. “Sure.”

Sylvie has to fetch a step stool to reach the middle shelves. She collects a medley of bottles, one of which looks neon purple. I watch her prepare a martini that changes colors with the pour of each new bottle.

“No allergies, right?”

“Not that I know of,” I reply.

“Good.” She pulls a small tube of gray powder from the cup of her bra and sprinkles it into the martini. It dissolves immediately. When she’s finished, the drink looks like it’s practically glowing—a rich amethyst.

“What the hell is this?” I ask with a laugh. “Spy, assassin, and a drug dealer?”

She chuckles. “Not drugs. An herbal Romani mix for good luck. Call it superstition, but I sprinkle it over every drink.”

“If I was going to poison someone, I’d tell that exact same bullshit story.” I smirk at her, then narrow my eyes.

“My, oh my. You sure are paranoid.” She holds up both hands in surrender before taking a hearty sip of the drink. She twirls around. “See? Still alive.” Then, she slides the martini glass to me. “And it is delicious if I say so myself.”

Balancing the glass between my thumb and forefinger, I take a small sip. It’s fruity and sweet—like blueberry and lavender, but there’s a bitter kick at the end. “Gin?” I scour the bottles she pulled out.

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