Page 13 of The Silver Spider
Chapter Five
His father had contacts. Amnan also had contacts.
Maddugh didn’t know about the permanent pass he’d acquired years ago. The Lord and King of Coal didn’t need to know everything. Especially not the extent of Amnan’s personal network. Not that he didn’t trust his father, or would ever betray him—but every son needed assets…just in case. Besides, if he ever had to utilize his network on his father’s behalf, Maddugh would have plausible deniability.
The clerk in the crowded intake office stared up at Amnan with the kind of overeducated haughtiness that told him the man, for all his fine schooling, was a fool. Because only a fool would mistake Amnan for prey.
“I do apologize,” the clerk said. He wore prissy, little, round spectacles, the copper color nearly pink, and a matching tie around his neck. His vest was just as fussy, brown and pink stripes and the sleeves of his white shirt perfectly starched. Hair an indeterminate shade between blond and brown—a unique shade to human mutts—was slicked back, the ends perfectly trimmed. Every item on the desk was in its place, and not even a stray scrap of paper or dust marred the surface.
This was a human, who took his job far too seriously.
Amnan smiled, allowing his true nature to slip through his eyes just a bit. He leaned forward, and brushed some imaginary lint off the man’s shoulder. “Tell Richardson that Amnan is requesting access. He will understand.”
The clerk paused, then cleared his throat. “R-Richardson?”
“Richardson.”
The man rose from his desk and hurried through a door. Amnan heard a loud sigh behind him and turned, pinning the portly woman with a stare. She stiffened, then huffed, avoiding his eyes, and he turned back around. Waiting in line was undignified, but he’d chosen to stay as low profile as possible—which necessitated waiting in line to request access to immigration records rather than using the entry reserved for men of stature. If he used that door, everyone would know he was in town—not just Richardson.
The clerk returned several moments later with his superior. “Ah, Amnan, good to see you.”
Richardson’s dress was less fussy than that of his underling, the taste higher quality. A dark grey suit, plain brown vest underneath, and hair allowed to rest naturally on his head, though it was expensively cut.
Richardson was head of the entire Office of Immigration, and in charge of processing applicants and new arrivals to the city. Serephone would have had to apply for entry through this office—and her paperwork would show what type of permit she’d been given, and where she’d been assigned work.
The gate was opened and Amnan ushered behind the counter. He felt the baleful stares on the back of his neck and suppressed the childish instinct to turn around and hiss a flame at them all.
Richardson clapped him on the back. “Jackson tells me you need some information,” he said as the two exited the front office into the main building.
Like most government buildings it was squat, and bland, and lacked windows. The hallways were too narrow and poorly lit—the city government preferred to spend funds planting tulips in public parks.
“Yes. A young woman was recently approved for entry.” He assumed she’d come in legally. Serephone might be crafty, and perhaps dangerous—but he didn’t think she yet had the skills or knowledge to slip undetected into a Dome. “My sister. I’d like to see her file.”
The human eyed him. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“Her mother recently wed my father. She decided to come to the city for an adventure without telling her mother. I promised I would make sure the girl was unharmed.” Amnan’s brow creased mournfully. “My father’s honeymoon period is dependent on my success.”
Richardson laughed. “Ah, headstrong, young women. That should be simple enough. Give me a moment to pull her file. Her name?”
“Serephone Kasabian.”
Richardson escorted him to an empty office and excused himself to go pull the file. It was only ten minutes, and his contact returned with a thin brown folder.
“Everything appears to be in order—the girl applied four weeks ago, and all her paperwork was in order. She is in compliance with all Dome norms as of this time.”
“Thank you for your assistance. My family will not forget.”
He waited until he’d cleared the building before pulling the papers out of the thin envelope and scanned the contents. Stared at the line detailing her place of employment, shock and amusement warring for dominance. And a creeping admiration, because she’d managed to land herself in the one place, where she was almost guaranteed to be in the middle of a hub of unsavory gossip.
A goddamn licensed brothel.
* * *
Serephone scannedthe crowd from her spot out of the way. Her place of employment was the same, and different, from Stella’s. The entertainment was the same, if classed up a bit with girls, who were fresh faced, professionally trained, and better…dressed. The decor was steel grays and blues with hints of platinum, plenty of private viewing rooms above and couches below for those who couldn’t afford their own boxes—and women.
Her job was to wait hand and foot on the downstairs patrons. Putting a new girl in a VIP room was unheard of—when she’d inquired—and hosting was for the mature ladies. But she was too pretty to be stuck in the back washing dishes, so they’d given her a uniform and trained her to smile elegantly and serve drinks.
She glanced down at her dress, suppressing her distaste. At least it was a deep sapphire blue and not pink. But the full skirts were cut at mid-thigh in the front, and her corset was more of a half corset. She was allowed a little velvet jacket, because evidently sticking one's boobs in a man’s face when bending over to serve his drink was both tacky and forbidden unless he’d paid for the privilege.
