Page 15 of The Silver Spider
Chapter Six
She approachedAmalie in the dressing room, using the shared tip as a pretext to start up a conversation.
The blonde glanced up as Serephone approached. “How did your night go?”
Sere held out the small envelope. “He said he put in enough to share.”
Amalie’s eyes widened. “He didn’t tell me—you could have kept the whole thing, you know.”
Why would she do that? “Not my style.”
Blue eyes regarded her thoughtfully before Amalie withdrew two slips of paper. Serephone had never seen a bank note before coming to Seattle. She glanced at the note over Amalie’s shoulder, first registering the name, Etienne Rosemont—and then the amount. She blinked. If she didn’t despise these kinds of men, she’d be tempted to make this thing a semi-permanent career. A woman could work a place like this, cultivate regular patrons, and leave in five years with enough to—
Serephone mentally slapped herself out of those thoughts, annoyed. She wasn’t here to work, though the momentary sight of more money than she’d ever had was a legitimate distraction.
Amalie handed her one of the notes. “What bank are you set up with?”
Serephone mentioned the name, and Amalie’s nose wrinkled. “Only shop clerks use that bank. Here, I’ll write down the address to the one I use. I run into patrons all the time—and their wives.” Her grin was wolfish. “You can get invitations to outside events sometimes—there’s a cafe nearby as well with outdoor seating. Sit for a few hours during the afternoon and just see what happens.”
“Interesting business here. In my town, they snatch girls for free. They ever wind up here?”
Amalie’s eyes widened and she glanced around. But most of the women were changing into street clothing and washing their faces, wanting to get the hell out and go home to bed. A few upgraded their attire. Sere figured they had extra evening appointments.
“Don’t talk about that here,” Amalie said, lowering her voice. “Or any other club with this level of clientele. That’s the kind of thing the patrons prefer not get bandied about as shop gossip.”
Serephone forced the muscles of her face to relax into idle curiosity. “Do the men here…order girls? I read a book once—”
Amalie stood. “Just hope you’re never ordered. The clients aren’t human, and those girls never come back.”
“Are they eaten or something?” Sere’s tone was dry, but her amusement evaporated when Amalie just stared at her.
“Thanks for splitting the tip,” the woman said instead of answering. “If you ever need another girl for a duo job…well. Baby steps.”
“Wait—I want to ask you something else, too.” She bent over the dressing table and carefully traced a glyph onto the back of her bank note. “Have you ever seen this?”
Amalie frowned, studying it. “It looks like a Line symbol. A—” she stopped talking. “Why would you—you know what? Never mind. I don’t want to know why you would want to get caught up with one of them.”
Serephone fluttered her lashes—she’d been practicing that, too. “Oh, I just saw it on a person on the street and wanted to know who the artist was. I’d love to get a tattoo like that.”
Amalie shook her head, gathering up her bag. “That’s not that kind of tattoo. Besides, they don’t let you mark your skin here. And if you were ever marked with one of those—well, you wouldn’t be working here anymore.”
Serephone walked back to her efficiency, brushing off the implications that she would ever go into escort service. She snorted. Persia would double over with laughter. Serephone—needing a girl for a duo job.
The evening had been productive, though, and she was satisfied. People lived where they banked, right? So, she’d change, go to this bank in the morning and watch who went in and out. Add to her list of possible clients. Men with the inclination to dabble in unwilling flesh, and the money to hire mercenaries to execute operations. And, she realized, enough clout that law enforcement would look the other way. Constables weren’t above bribes, especially these city folks.
She picked up her pace, heart racing from the thrill of starting her hunt for real. In her mind was the magical glyph branded on the prisoner’s hand. She had that, and now she knew where a rich man might bank—and even stroll down the street to eat.
* * *
The bank wasa vintage three story building made of large blocks of grey stone. Wide steps led to the carved wood double doors and a simple, polished steel sign said Bank of Seattle. It sat on the corner of the block with swatches of green around the exterior, the kind of wasteful landscaping that indicated wealth and prestige. Even in her hometown she’d heard news of water rationing, and protests from angry middle class citizens in council hall who resented being reminded that their existence inside a Dome was still precarious. But Sere supposed if one was rich enough, the permits to use water for decorative purposes were easy enough to come by.
Inside the bank, floors were polished concrete with veins of quartz. Pristine white walls with tall, paned glass windows on either side let in natural light. Heavy golden ropes created lines to a long, marble topped counter. Clerks in white shirts or blues and smart navy jackets stood in front of a massive watercolor painting. Transactions were conducted by hand, and the low murmur of voices was unbroken by anything as uncouth as an angry customer or crying toddler. The only people in line were well dressed, with airs of well bred, business-like impatience.
Serephone was directed to a desk on the far side of the open room when she told the clerk she desired to open an account. The brief glance the woman gave her attire was irritating, but evidently her disguise held. Sere seated herself in front of a more richly uniformed employee, glad she’d spent some of her first weeks’ pay on better clothing—after realizing that what she’d packed would firmly pinpoint her as a small-town bumpkin. Exchanging her sturdy brown trousers, jacket and white shirts for long skirts, embroidered jackets and shirts obviously sewn to be worn with a corset had sucked.
The account was opened, her banknote deposited. Though the clerk said nothing, Serephone could tell from the brief flicker of his lashes that he recognized the payor on the check.
“Welcome to the Bank of Seattle, Ms. Kasabian. We treasure your business.”
