Objects like this necklace are the one loophole to seeing auras, because even when I’m borrowing this magic from my sister, my aura doesn’t show it. Magic-infused tokens can be used by anyone, both blessed and unblessed, which makes them especially dangerous.
My parents keep a registry of all magically blessed objects that are created in the city, for the sake of keeping our family safe. I suspect, though, that most people don’t share their creations since there’s no way for us to track them, and it strips our family of an advantage. This gift from Aidia is a good example, because I have no intention of registering it in my parents’ records.
Before we were married off, I used to use it for fun—changing up my hair color for a night or making myself look exactly like Aidia so we could mess with men at bars.
But now I see her too infrequently to waste it. Not when I need it to take out my fury on a nightly basis, so that I don’t take it out on the one untouchable man in this city.
The magic flows through my body. A fierce, tingling itch spreads over every feature I’m changing. The eyes are the worst of it, but they always have to change. While many escorts in the city glamour their eyes violet for men who want something exotic, it’s still an unusual eye color. Even if anyone who sees me assumes I’m a sex worker instead of a Carrenwell, it will draw unwanted attention when I’m trying to be forgettable.
It takes ten deep breaths for the glamour to settle in. I picture my face with ash-blonde hair, slightly rounder cheeks, and dark brown eyes until, finally, the itching abates.
My safety and the safety of the women I’m helping requires this discomfort. It’s the only way we can safely meet face to face, and the easiest way for me to check my mailbox regularly without being found out.
I lift my hair from the shadow of my hood, relieved to see the raven-black locks are now golden. With the glamour in place, I step out of the alley and cross the small square to my mailbox.
Lunameade is not as quiet as I expected it to be, given the attack on Southwest Hold earlier. Perhaps the frequency of the attacks lately is making people more apt to continue business as usual. Then again, there’s only so little living one can do inside these city walls, and there are plenty of citizens who would rather risk life and limb than miss a fun party or a moonlit tryst.
My mailbox—or, rather, the Poison Vixen’s mailbox—hides in plain sight, among a collection of others. I also own several boxes around it to avoid suspicion of always visiting the same one. The trouble with my popularity growing is that I have to be extra careful when checking for messages. If some husband or lover is on to a woman seeking my help, I could just as easily find him waiting in the shadows.
The lock clicks and the door creaks open. I snatch the small piece of parchment inside and hold it up to the light pouring from a nearby bar window.
GX Client Meet.
I frown. That’s odd. I was expecting a location for a target we vetted three days ago, but Bea wants me to come straight to her bar.
Footsteps behind me startle me into action. I slam the mailbox shut and dart down the nearest alley. I follow the twists and turns until the familiar facade of Guardian’s Crossing comes into sight. The watchful painted eyes of a warrior look out over the heads of two men leaning against the wall, smoking. The man in the painting has his sword drawn, like he’s ready to cut down the men for daring to smoke so close to the front door, but for all the painting’s handsome menace, he’s just a folktale for the people of the city. The greater threat to the smokers is the bar owner.
I ignore their leering as I shove open the front door.
Guardian’s Crossing is an easy choice for meeting clients. It’s full of potent cocktails, loud music, and discreet liaisons. Pushing through the crush of people, I make my way to the bar.
Beatrice Grange looks up from behind the bar and meets my eye.
Even in a glamour, she recognizes me. I try to ignore the way her smile hits me in the chest. No matter how many times I remind myself that we’re just friends now—that she’s moved on—my heart still kicks up a beat for her.
Bea always looks so confident and beautiful behind the bar. Her hairis short but styled impeccably into a shiny bob. Her high-waisted trousers accentuate her full hips and narrow waist, and her shirt sleeves are rolled up to show off flawless brown skin and strong forearms that she’s earned pulling pints, hauling casks, and tossing out any man foolish enough to get too handsy with her barmaids.
I walk to the end of the bar, dodging a waitress with a precariously stacked tray of drinks, and lean over the bar toward Bea.
“You summoned?”
She smiles tightly. “I did. I have a new client here for you. There’s just one problem.”
I groan. “Please, no more problems today. I’ve had a long night already.”
“It’s a rush job. She wants it done tonight.”
Of course. This couldn’t just be a normal job and a normal night.
“Fine,” I grumble. I rub the bridge of my nose, the ache from earlier growing worse with the sudden rush of noise and scent.
Bea’s brow pinches in concern. “You’re not doing this if you have a headache.”
I sigh. “It’s just the itch of the glamour.”
The lie comes easily because it’s born out of years of pretending I feel fine when I’m in excruciating pain. It used to make me feel powerful—that I could hide such wretched agony from the world. Now it just makes me feel lonely.
In truth, it’s not that bad right now, and I don’t have the bright, shining aura that I sometimes get around my eyes. Tonight, my pain is manageable, and I have to push through because there will be too many nights when I can’t.
