Memento Mori

3.5 - DEVILS KNOWN (PART 2)

ARMS CROSSED under my furred cape, I fall in a step behind Volt with Matthias at my side, Lain wrapping up the rear. The Psi's careful mental overwatch lingers like a barely-forgotten thought in a corner of my mind. I set the ground rules while he was working on my outfit earlier. Never worked closely with a Psi before, but the class is one of the most coveted to have in professional fighting teams, even if it's got a reputation even shittier than the Assassins. I'd be a fool not to use him. Matthias agreed to keep tabs on Lain and I separately and shield us from any hostile Psis. No telepathy, though.

As we wend through a series of alleys that cuts behind the main promenade's gambling halls, the golden lights of the district fade to a muted brown, electronic jazz to a thin buzz over the nearest rooftops. Tamer familiars belong to waiters and staff dart back and forth between the crate-stacked thoroughfare, running bottles between the businesses. Their owners sit on overturned boxes and lean against brick walls, chatting between breaks while watching pro fight streams that pollute the air with shoutcaster ambiance. Lighter smoke fills my lungs with incense fragrance. My nose wrinkles as I follow Volt through hazy clouds of the stuff, completely ignored by the wait staff on either side. Everyone here is working in the pocket of one gangster or another. They know what's up.

"Five zeroes for a one-night security operation at the Kwa-Hon, gambling included, is one of the few things that could entice me out of an early retirement," Volt says, glancing back at us. "I imagine you're here for a similar reason?"

"Haven't scored buying-a-pad-in-the-Glass type credits yet," Lain says, knitting her fingers behind her head. Her forehead dips nonchalantly down at me. "Just paying back a favor. This one's not exactly made of money, either."

A heavy brass band rips out the opening chords of their next song to raucous applause as we exit the last alley separating us from the Lighthouse. Dead ahead, across a thickly populated road drenched in golden streetlight, the famed casino's spiraling windows loom like crystal snakes above its tributary gambling halls. Staff entrances buzz with activity on the other side of the street. Volt lingers on the sidewalk to let a three-long convoy of armored autocabs drift past before starting across.

"Kun Kharsa," I say, noting the blue hues of the autocabs' running lights.

Volt palms a small comm unit wormed into his ear. "Running as fashionably late as we are. Yelena and her witches are in the lobby with Wishbone. The Anvil, I believe he's at the lifts."

"Ulysses?"

"In the conference room for the past half an hour with our patron. Didn't think he and Nero were quite so amicable, last I saw them together."

Last they met a few years back, street rumor swears Ulysses ripped one of Nero's arms clean off at the socket. The story did the rounds in every bar in the lowVents for an entire season.

"Must be something in the air," I mutter.

Volt claps his palms and motions us along. Inside, I'm trying to figure out his affinities. He's good, though. No external tells. Knows his business.

Into another alley, sidling past a cluster of sweating young waiters, slipping through a propped-open back door at the base of the Lighthouse. Staff corridors, the inner workings of a machine that no client will ever see. Thin halls, dangerous confines with high ceilings and bright lights that leave no space to hide. Get in a fight here and it's not a question of who's dying, but how many bodies will be cleaned up at the end. Cream-colored paint, fake darkoak planks echoing with real timbre beneath the heels of my boots. The sounds of the casino rattle through revolving doors heading into gambling halls and reserved rooms. Clinking wine glasses, popping corks, fizzy champagne pouring, cards shuffling, clattering credit chits. Fat laughter, rich laughter, the kind of laughter that has never seen the streets that prop this golden hell up.