Page 81 of The Unweaver

“Tell me about Rune Borges,” she said, desperate for a distraction.

“Rune’s a pompous arse who loves to hear himself talk. But he knows his shit. These days he’s married to Camille. Me and her worked at the Lily together. Courtesans who don’t get a contract renewal retire at the ripe old age of thirty. Camille went from entertaining several rich pigs to marryinghim, the biggest pig of them all.”

Retiring at thirty sounded very appealing to Cora. “Were you offered a contract renewal?”

Anita nodded, growing quiet as they pulled up in front of the Gilded Lily. “Hope Madam ain’t still pissed about that seven years later. It’s best if she don’t know we’re here, savvy?”

Chapter 22. The Gilded Lily

The brothel of amorously trained Sanguimancers and Animancers was unlike any flesh house Cora had ever seen. With smooth white stone and towering columns, the Gilded Lily rose like a Grecian temple to Venus herself.

Anita looked ill. She tossed the car key to a tuxedo-clad valet who gawked at the black smoke spewing from the overheated engine. Another valet held the massive doors open, and they were ushered into unbridled opulence.

Decked out in sinful splendor, the atrium was kissed by the afternoon sunlight streaming through gold draped windows. Chandeliers dripped crystals from the vaulted, fresco-adorned ceilings. Overstuffed chaises, brocaded in silks and velvets, laid like sumptuous islands in a sea of plush carpets. A melody of perfumes drifted in the air.

Even in her new rags, Cora felt as drab as a sparrow next to the courtesans strutting like peacocks through the atrium.

“If you would follow me, Azalea,” the valet said with a bow.

“Anita. My name is Anita now.” Her silky voice was devoid of the Cockney drawl. In this place, her East End edges were smoothed as the courtesan’s elegant mask slipped on.

“As you say, Azalea.”

The valet escorted them past rooms dedicated to worldly pleasures, through arched hallways lined with doors from which moans, grunts, and cries of pleasure and pain emerged. The valet halted before a grand door in a quieter wing and knocked. A gruff voice bade them enter.

The door opened to a dark, spacious suite. It took a moment for Cora’s eyes to adjust to the gloom. Thick drapes were pulled across the windows and only a dim lamp brightened the suite that was more extravagant than the pleasure rooms she’d glimpsed.

An ember glowed from the shadows. The end of a cigar, dangling from the mouth of Rune Borges, sprawled in an armchair.

While the mercenary had been dashing in his prime, his brawn had since gone to fat, bulging against his militaristic tunic that was festooned with weapons so polished they likely hadn’t seen the outside of their bejeweled holsters. His olive skin was heavily lined, his coiffed hair more silver than black. Gray stubble sprouted from his jowls.

These days, the only thing Rune Borges was conquering was a tray of finger sandwiches. With beringed hands, he popped them in his mouth as he leered at them, dark eyes glittering.

“Azalea,” he greeted, the gruffness of his voice tempered by a rich Portuguese accent. Drinking deep from a flagon of wine, he swiped the back of his hand over his generous mouth and loosed an indulgent belch.

“Anita.” She ripped the drapes open, and sunlight poured in a blinding flash. Hands on her ample hips, she stood over the Ferromancer shielding his bloodshot eyes from the sudden brightness. “We don’t have time for your shit, Rune. We need information. You only get paid if you give it to us.”

“Plucky as ever, Azalea,” he chortled, tossing a beefy arm over the back of his chair and pulling on his cigar. “I’ll have you andyour bossknow thatIdon’t have time for lackeys. I didn’t retire as the most celebrated metal mage in generations to deal with the Realmwalker’smigué. I am the head of security at the Gilded Lily, the most prestigious pleasure house in Britain. In all of Europe. Do you know what demands that makes on my time?” He stuffed another sandwich in his mouth. “This is no easy job, sweetheart.”

Anita knocked the sandwich tray onto the rug and Rune nearly tumbled out of his chair after them. His eyes took in the carnage, then narrowed on the Sanguimancer, ogling her up and down.

“I might overlook your pluckiness, girl, if you sit on Papi’s lap like old times, hm?” He patted his thighs in invitation.

“I don’t entertain clients anymore,” Anita ground out in a voice like silken steel.

Rune snatched her arm with surprisingly quick reflexes. Anita yanked away but the ex-mercenary’s grip was firm. Cora stepped forward, eyes darting between them.

A faint shimmer of energy was the only warning before Anita’s magic struck. Blood drained from his face, and he yelped, clasping his crotch protectively.

“Your excuse for a pecker isn’t the only thing I can drain the blood out of.” Anita hovered her hands over him, and he shrank back. “Say, how’s your wife, Rune? I do miss entertaining clients with Camille. I miss our threesomes. And foursomes. And—”

“Enough.” Muttering Portuguese curses, Rune readjusted his family jewels away from Anita. Cigar clamped in his teeth, his gaze fell on Cora in a lecherous onceover. “She’d be prettier if she had any tits.”

Scowling, Cora crossed her arms over the tits in question. “It’s easier for you to change your beauty standards than it is for me to change my body to meet them,” she said. “Arsehole.”

“You know who she is, don’t you?” Anita’s grin widened at his faltering confidence. “That’s Mal’s newest recruit, Cora Walcott. The Unweaver.”

Rune Borges paled beneath his tan. He eyed Cora fearfully, his jowls quivering as he struggled to swallow. Introductions were unnecessary, then. He knew she’d killed Verek and could kill him too. It was both liberating and alarming how few qualms Cora had at that prospect.

---