Page 98 of The Unweaver

She grabbed his lapels when the room cartwheeled. “You know what your problem is?”

He took a bracing breath. “An alarmingly high alcohol tolerance and predilection for challenging women?”

“You”—she jabbed his chest with each word—“need to lighten up.”

“You know what your problem is? Other than the obvious.” He motioned at her on swaying feet. “You need to—”

“Won’t you introduce us to your enchanting mademoiselle, Monsieur Bane?” came an oily voice like dogshit squishing between her toes.

Cora whipped around. Their hushed argument had drawn a roomful of spectators, but her eyes were trained on only one of them.

Marcel Durbec licked his lips. “Does mademoiselle desire a drink?”

“I never thought I’d say this,” said a ruddy-faced man, “but that bird looks smashing in a suit. Why don’t you take a seat beside me, sweetheart?” He poured Cora a glass of champagne,most of which sloshed onto the half-naked woman on his lap to a chorus of laughter.

Cora and the strawberry blonde lap adornment recognized each other at the same moment.Paling, Sloane Kilbride looked at Cora like she was the devil incarnate. Despite the sudden urge to flee, Cora did derive some small measure of perverse pride at striking fear into the heart of a shadow mage.

When Cora reached for the proffered champagne, Bane gave her a near imperceptible shake of his head and a very perceptible tightening of his arms.

The man looked between them, his ruddy face cracking into a grin. “Is she yours, Mal?”

“She can speak for herself.” Cora wriggled out of Bane’s fierce hold. “And she belongs to no one.”

“Coquin,” Durbec chuckled. The simpering desperation of his laugh grated on her nerves.

“That the new piano player?” asked a flapper with a rhinestone headband. “You were brilliant. Stay and have a drink, hon.”

“Cora needs to get back to work.” Bane fisted the back of her jacket to keep her in place.

“Oh, just one drink, Mal.”

Knowing Bane wouldn’t risk tearing his own suit, Cora tugged out of his grasp to take the champagne. “Fuck it.” She knocked it back, and the ruddy man refilled her glass with a wink and anAtta girl.

Introductions were made and promptly forgotten. The ruddy man was a judge—Forley? Farley? The balding man in a tuxedo was Lord Something-or-Other. The others’ names went in one ear and out the other. Yvonne, speaking with Bane in a low voice rich like honey, ignored Cora. A smile played on the Phytomancer’s cherry red lips as she toyed with the antique locket on a chain around her neck.

More champagne was poured. Drunken banalities were exchanged. Cora had half an ear for the chit chat, humming agreeable noises when necessary. Her attention was fixated on Durbec. She pictured all the things she would rot off of him as he prattled on to a bored flapper.

You murderer. You bootlicking worm. You killed Teddy. I will kill you.

The judge was looking at Cora expectantly. Had he asked her a question? He’d been complaining about his wife, whom she assumed was not the Umbramancer astride him. She forced a smile, hoping that response would suffice.

Durbec, mistaking her attention for admiration, approached Cora and sketched an exaggerated bow. Reaching for her hand, he bent to defile it with a kiss. “Enchanté, mademoiselle.”

Cora yanked her hand back and wiped off the taint of his nearness on her trousers. She couldn’t imagine those delicate, manicured hands carving Teddy up. But she had no doubt Durbec had earned his reputation as a savage butcher by the avaricious glint in his eyes. Who knew all the atrocities those soft hands had committed.

She drew herself up, spine rigid. Never had she been as appreciative of her height as she was now, towering over the slight Frenchman forced to crane his head back to meet her murderous gaze.

“Ah, forgive my forwardness, mademoiselle.” Durbec licked his lips, mustache twitching. “In Paris, we kiss cheeks as well as hands. I am still learning your English customs, though I have been in your fair country since the war ended. I run a charming little shop in Chelsea, trading in art and relics some might even callmagical.” He glanced at the humans with a quick, sharp smile. “Trésors Cachés. Perhaps you have heard of it?”

Cora glowered down at him. Decay seeped through her gloves.

“Ah. I see you are not familiar as your employer, Monsieur Bane, is of my humble business. I was most pleasantly surprised to receive his invitation, as we have not had much occasion to, ah, collaborate. I, Marcel Durbec, am a purveyor of rare and priceless wares.”

“Illegitimate wares, you mean,” the judge chortled.

“Some are legitimacy-challenged wares.” Durbec’s tone was stiff with wounded pride. Expression smoothing, he smiled unctuously at Cora. “I do entertain a certain notoriety.”

“As your rap sheet amply demonstrates,” said the judge.

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