Devil-May-Care whistled. “You sure that’s where she is?”
“If not, I can ask him again. Left him chained to a pipe on a roof. He can survive a day before the cleaners find him.”
Devil-May-Care shook his head, but the grin was evident on his face. “I’ll have to hand it to my dear nemesis. He has balls hiding the girl at his own house.”
“I stopped by it. It looked heavily protected.”
“It is. He has friends in both the constabulary and the navy. Off-hours, their lads work for him. Isn’t that laughable?”
“Says the man who employs honest labourers as bandits.”
“Oh, we wish we had the same kind of leverage they do,” Devil-May-Care sighed. “Cuttlefish only appears once-a-falling-star. Lazy bastard.”
Luck bristled. “You shouldn’t be talking openly to a homunculus about what appears to be a Protectorate spy.”
Devil-May-Care cackled. “A spy? More like a ghost! If you think Cuttlefish works for me, you’re mistaken. He comes in like a bad omen then fucks off to never be seen again. I was hoping you knew him but looks like I gambled wrong.”
“Why would I know him?”
“He told me that you might show up here asking for our help. Ain’t that peculiar?”
“You must know something—”
“A ghost. He sends telegrams. Maybe he really is a Protectorate pencil-pusher. Wouldn’t be surprised if all isn’t well in Lord Chares Pesh’s perfect utopia in the making.”
Luck resisted the urge to strangle Devil-May-Care.
They arrived in front of Hotel Blackpearl. Despite it being a new base of operations, it didn’t look much like one Luck remembered. The last one burned down.
Devil-May-Care guided him away from the front doors, instead slipping behind the building where a few guards were stationed, playing cards and smoking pipes. Luck kept his spine straight and strode in confidently past the suspicious glares. None of the guards moved though, averting their gaze as Devil-May-Care closed in.
“Been around the back before, Luck?” he asked.
Luck didn’t reply.
They ascended a private staircase behind the tavern’s main lobby. A couple of dolled-up girls in short dresses were sharing a smoke on the stairs.
“Hi, Devil!” they chorused.
“Evening, darlings. Where’s Velvet?” Devil-May-Care asked.
“The lounge.”
They both pointed at the double doors at the end of the corridor, gleaming with geometric patterns of gold scales and studded black pearls. Muffled piano and a thick wave of spiced cigars seeped through.
The Blackpearl Lounge was a bar straight out of a motion-picture; the walls and the lamp lights were a rich red, the floor a polished marble, and a hundred coloured glass bottles lined the back wall, refracting in the light. The air was thick with whisky, smoke, and laughter. Many men, broad-shouldered and inked as Sugarmen, were relaxing in leather cushioned seats circling a table full of spilled drinks and cards. Each man had one or two girls under their arms, cooing and laughing with them.
A wooden stage large enough for a jazz band was built at the back, but only a grand piano was on display tonight, strumming a classy tune. It was one of the girls, a redhead, adorned with a scarf and glasses.
Velvet stepped away from one of the tables, a hand on her waist.
“Here for a drink or dinner, Devil?” she asked.
“Nothing for me tonight, dear. But please get some service for our big man,” said Devil-May-Care, thumping Luck on the back.
Luck glared at him and the smaller man stepped away, hands up.
“Lala,” Velvet called out. “Break time’s over. You’re on call.”
“Lala?” Luck echoed.
The redhead climbed down the stage, her dress clinging to her waist yet riding up to show off long legs and dark, smooth skin. Luck should have looked away, but he didn’t. He watched as the redhead approached, constantly pushing her glasses up her nose. Behind the frames, he saw golden eyes. Her lips were always beautiful, but now even more red, practically begging for his attention—
His hand shot out, catching Devil-May-Care by the throat.
Velvet took a step back in alarm. All conversation died down from the other tables.
The Sugarmen shot up from their seats, brandishing weapons, but Devil-May-Care held up a hand to them.
“What were you thinking?” Luck hissed, quiet enough only for the two of them.
“No one touches my Blackpearl girls. Thought she’d enjoy the change in environment,” he gurgled between peals of laughter.
Luck’s fingers tightened. “You paraded her in front of these bastards, letting them leer at her like she’s some—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Lady Mahala cut in, storming up to them. She touched his arm. “Let him go.”
Devil-May-Care wasted air with laughter. Luck wanted to throw him across the room but Mahala’s hand gripped his sleeve tighter.
“I’m fine. Nothing has happened,” she whispered. “Let him go. Please?”
Luck let the bony neck slip through his fingers and Devil-May-Care collapsed onto the ground. He wretched loudly, holding his throat. Velvet rushed to his side, rubbing circles on his back.
“What, gonna watch me gag for the next hour? At least get some music going!” Devil-May-Care called out, snapping his fingers.
A couple of men shuffled onto the stage, filling the awkward silence with a piano and trumpet duet. The other girls forced on smiles and started firing away questions as they fawned over the Sugarmen.
Mahala linked arms with Luck and brought him to an empty booth. Devil-May-Care was slow behind them, an arm around Velvet as he dipped into conversations with the other tables.
“Lady… Mahala…” Luck said slowly, still trying to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating her current outfit.
“Just Lala for today,” said Mahala, she wrung her hands on her lap. “Took you a moment to recognise me, right? You think it’ll fool the other homunculi?”
Luck didn’t want the other homunculi to see her in the dress.
“Yes,” he choked out.
Mahala’s shoulders heaved, a small smile gracing her face. Luck shouldn’t have looked.
“Thank goodness,” she sighed.
Luck’s eyes tore away from her face, and it fell onto her lap instead. He saw a hint of her bare thigh peeking from her stocking. Just an inch sent his heart racing. He tried to look elsewhere, but the dress and the makeup made looking at Lady Mahala harder than navigating a crowd of forktongues.
“What did Efrem ask you to do?” Mahala asked.
It took a second for the question to sink in. For a few minutes, he had blissfully forgotten what he had to do to get here. He fumbled for an answer, perhaps too long, and Mahala’s hand tugged his sleeve again.
“Please, can you tell me?” she asked. “What is it going to cost to get me on a boat?”
“That’s not something I’m burdening on your conscience. I haven’t finished the job yet,” Luck said, avoiding her gaze. “It was my decision.”
“You didn’t even ask me if I wanted that.”
“We didn’t have time. The Theater found us.”
Mahala tugged his arm. “I asked you why you chose Port Lavinia. It’s because you’ve been here before, right? Was it in your past life? Is that how the homunculi figured out we’d be here? D-Do they know that you know about the Sugarmen? W-Were… you one of them?”
“Yes,” Luck blurted out. “No, I… I wasn’t really… I wanted to.”
He couldn’t stop himself from talking. His heart thumped so fast that he couldn’t keep up with his thoughts. He couldn’t concentrate on anything else other than trying to not look at Mahala. The body heat radiating off her was delicious after all the cold rain, and it took him everything to not edge closer.
“I was just a nobody,” he said. “I-I wanted more than that. That’s all. I’m not… I wasn’t a terrible man. I just—”
Mahala’s hand gripped his knee, sending a shock up his leg. He straightened up and avoided her gaze even harder.
“Incoming,” she whispered.
A stocky Sugarman sauntered over them, taking a swig of his drink. He leaned over opposite them with a lopsided smile.
“Lala, right? You’re an absolute firecracker on the ivories. Are ya gonna be in town long? My little girl’s always wanted t’learn, but can’t trust these drunk assholes to teach her anythin’ right.”
“Fuck you, Trip,” yelled the pianist from the stage.
Mahala offered a meek smile. “I’m flattered, sir. But I’m still quite new in town...”
Velvet appeared beside the Sugarman, offering out a tray of clear drinks in heavy glasses. “Remember house rules, Trip. You keep away from the new girls until they’re finished training.”
“Yeah? So why does the freak get to have a piece of her?” Trip asked. “How the devil did a homunculus end up on our doorstep? Is that what all the fuss on the harbour’s been about?”
“We don’t kiss and tell here, don’t ask any questions above your paygrade,” said Velvet.
“Did someone call my name?” Devil-May-Care drawled, collapsing into a seat opposite Mahala.
Mahala’s eyebrows knitted together. “Are you alright? Your neck…”
“Pssh. The reapers will all make fun of me if I make a scene out of some rouge on me,” he said despite the impressive handspan imprinted nearly around the full width of his chicken-thin neck. “Lavinian lads are hardy creatures. No one makes spirits as strong as ours!”
With that, Velvet set down a glass full of clear liquid in front of Luck. Mahala took a sharp breath and reared back.
“Please enjoy our finest liquor! Made with the very best blackpearl apples grown on Pomolish soil!” Devil-May-Care announced. He picked up one of the glasses himself and took a sip.
Luck ignored the drink. “Shouldn’t you be busy preparing your boats?”
Devil-May-Care wheezed as the drink burned its way down his throat. “The Theater locked down the harbour. All the ship-owners here are protesting against it, though, so the Protectorate eventually will have to force the Theater’s hand and let the reapers back out again.”
“Don’t have to be a fucken genius to know that thing’s the reason none of us can go do our job,” said Trip. He leaned over to jab a finger at Luck’s shoulder but Luck caught his arm in a tight grip.
“I have a name,” Luck growled.
Trip snorted and ripped his arm away. “You want courtesy? Your fancy title means nothin’ here. In our Pomolin, ya want somethin,’ you gotta earn it. Isn’t that right, Devil?”
“Oh, I think he’s challenging you to a drink-off!” Devil-May-Care said, his eyes lighting up.
“Y’hear that, lads?” one of the Sugarmen called. “Dumbass Trip thinks he can outdrink a magical homunculus.”
“None of you cowards have any pride!” Trip yelled back.
“I’m not drinking. I still have work left,” said Luck.
“Well, shit. It’s a bore too!” Trip exclaimed.
“Trip, you’re working tomorrow,” Devil-May-Care added.
“You said it yourself, the boats are all stuck for now because of this dirty turncoat. Yet here he prances on in, layin’ hands on the boss’ right hand, layin’ hands on the new girl, refusin’ our drinks. He wants our respect, but what’s he done to earn it?”
Mahala fidgeted in her seat. Luck thought she’d be clutching at her wyrm through the scarf, like she normally did, but instead she touched her cheek. He didn’t know what that meant.
All Sugarmen were continuing with their own conversations, but all eyes were on Luck. They were drunk, bullish seadogs, but they weren’t idiots. They were also the only ones that were going to get Mahala out of the country.
So Luck took the glass, and his faceplates opened up.
At least one man gasped. To Devil-May-Care’s credit, it wasn’t him.
His jaw swung open as he swallowed down the drink whole. It left a scorching trail down his throat. He couldn’t even taste the apple, just straight up poison for all he knew. He gulped it down without any protest and slammed the glass back onto the table — empty.
Devil-May-Care whistled and clapped.
Some of the Sugarmen smiled. Others were unreadable, but picked up their own glasses to down. Most were still caught up by the way his jaw worked.
Luck cleared his throat, forcing his neck nearly rigid to avoid looking at what Lady Mahala’s reaction might be. “Your drink tastes like turpentine and better off cleaning off the decks of your ships. Your pick-up line involving your daughter has no taste. And I refuse to believe I’m the first person who’s wanted to wring Devil-May-Care Efrem’s neck out. I’m just the one with the balls to actually do it.”
A breve of silence followed.
Trip bursted out into laughter. “Forget what I said! I like ya, homunculus! What’s your name?”
“Are you really bonding over strangling me?” Devil-May-Care asked.
The other Sugarmen raised their glasses. The air loosened, the music livening up as well. Luck hoped it would last the night.
Trip may have warmed up to Luck, but he was certainly tempting Luck to punch him in the face. He wished Devil-May-Care would drag him out, but the man was nowhere in sight. Luck assumed he was busy.
“How long you been playin’ for, Lala?” Trip asked. He was broad and weathered like many other sailors in the city, scars darting out from under a surprisingly well-kept beard. Luck wouldn’t have guessed him as a father at first glance.
“A long time. More than ten years,” Mahala replied.
“Sounds ‘bout right… you got beautiful hands…” Trip leaned forward, eyes twinkling — it was unclear if it was the alcohol or something else. “Looked like a star on our little stage… off in your own universe…”
Mahala smiled back. It was genuine. “Oh, I suppose I do get lost in the music. That’s the magical thing about it.”
Luck just about had enough of this. He draped an arm around her shoulder and drew her closer to him. “I believe Velvet had a house rule about the new girls,” he said.
“New girls are allowed to talk to whoever they want if they like ‘em. You like me well enough, aye, Lala?” Trip said, still not taking his eyes off her, his smile big and goofy. “How did a precious girl like you end up in our sorry side of the city? You should be performin’ in a musical hall.”
Mahala giggled. She actually giggled.
Luck tightened his grip on her.
“You know… you kinda even look like the Lady of Pomolin,” said Trip, squinting. “Of course you’re prettier.”
“I think you’ve had too much to drink,” said Mahala gently.
“Ya sure you wanna entertain that old bastard for the rest of the night?” he asked. “I promise my kiss won’t have any freaky louse parts.”
“Cockroach, actually,” Mahala said.
Luck fought the urge to hide his mouth behind his hand.
“When did ya find out?” Trip exclaimed.
Mahala winked at Luck. “We don’t kiss and tell.”
Luck’s heart skipped a beat, nearly letting go of her shoulder in surprise. He didn’t even get annoyed when Trip thumped him on the shoulder. His bruises woke up from the somnleaf.
“Already snagged her, Lucky! You’re pretty slick!” he laughed.
Luck didn’t feel like punching Trip in the face anymore.
The room they were given was, according to Velvet, one of their best suites, and insisted upon by Devil-May-Care. Luck opened the door to a spacious red room with gaudy gold-brushed furniture, two robes hung off the front. The room’s centrepiece was a round bed large enough to fit four people comfortably, a veiled canopy nestled around it, aglow with sea-oil lanterns encased in red glass. Someone had the audacity to scatter rose petals on top of the duvet. He wished he could strangle Devil-May-Care Efrem a second time.
“So… what do I do?” Mahala asked.
Luck nearly tripped forward. “I beg your pardon?”
“What do I do to help you through being drunk?”
“Oh. I’m not drunk.”
“But… you drank their liquor.”
“It’ll take more than one glass,” Luck said quickly. He strode forward to check the room and the ensuite bathroom. “Everything looks clear.”
Mahala still hadn’t moved from the door. “So… you don’t feel anything different? Nothing’s going to happen?”
He finally brought his attention back to her. He noted how she touched her cheek again.
“My lady, are you alright?” he asked slowly.
She fidgeted from the door. “Um…”
“Is it because I took the drink? I apologise… I should have realised it would upset you,” he said, head bowed. “I won’t touch another drink here.”
Mahala met his gaze. “One drink… won’t make you drunk. I should have figured that out myself.” She took a deep breath. “I-I… I trust you… Nothing’s going to happen.” Her hand curled at her cheek.
Luck approached calmly. He shut the door behind her to give them privacy and guided her to a dresser. He sat her down, hands resting lightly on her shoulders.
He wanted to ask her what happened at the mountain village, she mentioned being caged, beaten, stabbed… He wanted to know why her face was healing scars. Did someone actually hammer nails into her chest? He noticed how her eyes would stare off into space, following things he couldn’t see, perhaps things that weren’t there at all. He couldn’t know all the things the wyrm had done to her.
None of them were pleasant thoughts, so he tried to focus on now. The blackpearl apple liquor lingered on his breath. He needed to rinse it out, and probably a cold shower as well to help with his swelling bruises.
Her lips pursed together. He wanted to run a thumb over them, to feel how soft they would be. Everyone out there thought they’d kissed from her comment... maybe he should make that come true—or maybe he really was drunk.
“I can leave if that would make you more comfortable,” he said instead of any of that. “Please just allow me to be stationed nearby. I would like to make sure you are safe overnight.”
“No, I’d rather you stayed,” Mahala said, her fingers chasing his wrist. He hoped she couldn’t read his pulse. “Please.” He really hoped she couldn’t.
He waited outside while she got changed. The door cracked open twenty minutes later, scrubbed of her makeup, the wig removed, wearing nothing but a lace nightgown. Bare and vulnerable, and so very beautiful. She invited him inside, and he stopped himself from reading any further into it.
“Any preference for which side of the bed? Well… I guess this bed has no corners,” Mahala muttered.
“I was going to take the sofa,” Luck said, pointing at the small two-seater facing the window.
“You’re injured. I don’t think you can even fit in the sofa.”
Luck wasn’t sure how to approach the obvious problem. “Are you sure?”
“This bed is big enough for an entire family unit,” said Mahala. She paused and let out a strained laugh. “Distasteful comparison for an establishment like this. I think the Sugarmen are rubbing off on me.”
“Are you sure?” Luck asked again.
Mahala gave him a small smile. “It’s fine. I’m… fine. Nothing’s going to happen.”
Nothing will happen. He repeated it in his heart again and again with every step towards the bed.
She laughed again. “Honestly, it’s the least scandalous thing I’ve done this week.” She took a step towards him. “Did you get treated for your bruises?”
“Yes,” Luck lied. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
Mahala frowned. She pulled a small container from her pocket. “It’s ointment, I borrowed it from one of the girls.”
“I’ll make sure to use it.”
She frowned. “You don’t need any help?”
The idea of her hands on his bare back sent a hot flush along his neck. “I…”
She offered him a reassuring smile and he didn’t know how to refuse her. So he sat at the edge of his bed, carefully unbuttoning his shirt. If his front was anything to go by, there should be patches of mottled blue on his back. Mahala made no audible reaction. Her fingertips lightly traced his spine and he let out an involuntary gasp.
“Sorry, was that too much pressure?” she said.
“Just surprised.”
She giggled. “Didn’t know it was possible to surprise a Magus of Time.”
He tried to laugh with her.
Her hand smoothed over the bruise on his lower back with the ointment. Warm, gentle and sending a pulse through his skin. His faceplates twitched with effort to not make any sounds. He didn’t know if he was just being hyperaware, or if the wyrm had made her warmer.
“I really am leaving soon,” Mahala said softly.
He winced. “Yes.”
“You’re going back to the homunculi.”
“Yes.”
“Are you scared?”
“I’m more scared for you, my lady. You will be on your own.”
Her palm pressed flat against his back. “I… I just can’t let anyone see me like this…”
“Would you really rather let Shuteye kill you than take you back?” Luck blurted out. He immediately regretted it.
She didn’t respond.
“My lady?” he pleaded.
He should’ve left it alone but he turned to look at her. The soft light of the lanterns highlighted her face and how loose the nightgown was on her shoulder. His heart raced. If he held her now, it would be against his bare chest — he would actually be able to feel her. His fingers twitched.
“Lady Mahala, would you really ask for death?” he said.
Her eyes didn’t meet his, they trailed the marks on the front of his chest. She sighed and pushed the container into his hand.
“That’s what you’re doing, aren’t you? You know father will have you shot. You could stay alive if you wanted to. No one would be able to catch you,” she said.
“My life isn’t important. I’m just a homunculus,” Luck said. “I’d be dead in a few years anyway when the leylines shift.”
Her hand held his tighter. “Please don’t say that. You are all dear to me. Especially you, Luck.”
Luck wished he believed her, but he didn’t. He couldn’t be. He failed her. And she was leaving as a result of that failure, going to a place he could never reach her. Over the Golden Sea for all he knew.
He placed another hand over hers. “You could stay too.” The word spilled out of him before he could think about it.
She looked up at him, wide-eyed.
Luck worried he was actually drunk. What right did he have to ask her to stay? He froze at the most important moment, and she was now infected. Of course she didn’t want anyone to see her. She was terrified. Staying here meant being in hiding, wearing the disguise of Lala forever, worried someone was going to see her wyrm and hurt her.
He had no right to have her like this. So he let his hand slip away.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything,” Luck said quickly, the container to his chest. “I’ll apply the rest myself.”
They both settled on their sides of the bed without so much a good night. Luck heard Mahala tossing and turning on her side. She shifted closer to him, definitely past her side of the bed. She came close enough he could feel the heat from her body. She didn’t try to touch him again.
He wished she did.
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