“Anton, my hero,” she mimics, slinking in front of him and positioning herself so that she conceals him from the doorway. He’s still staring at the ceiling, so she grabs the back of his head. “You’re allowed to look at me.”
His gaze snaps down in concert with her command. As soon as their eyes meet, Anton leans back into the chair like he’s trying to sink inside the cushions. Calla follows, using one leg to part his knees so she can lower herself onto the plush seat, the other leg holding her balance.
“How close do you think they are?” she asks. Her voice turns sultry as she settles into the courtesan role, smoothing a hand across his temple. She would be lying if she said it wasn’t for her own amusement too. She’s trying her hardest not to laugh. “Three rooms away? Two?”
She watches his pulse at his throat, the soft hollow beating at rapid speed. Though he’s forcing a neutral expression, he can’t keep his eyes steady or stop the parting of his lips when Calla runs her touch down his chest.
“Calla Tuoleimi.” Anton doesn’t sound like he’s teasing anymore. “This is a dangerous game to be playing while our lives are in imminent danger.”
The corridor outside echoes with more shouting, more disgruntled complaints.What are you people doing, why are you just barging in like this, no we haven’t seen a man and a woman, please getout!
Another loud slam. That’s the room next door, for certain. Calla leans over him.
“I thought”—her hand sinks farther then, the heel of her palm digging into his hard crotch—“you liked playing games.”
The low sound she draws from Anton delights her tremendously. She hopes they hear it out in the hallway.
“So that’s how it’s going to be,” he manages. He looks to the door, listening. “Fine.”
And he puts his mouth to one of her breasts, running his tongue across the tip. Calla almost strays from position, arching slightly at the wet, hot sensation despite herself. He does it again through the silk, even slower, and she would snap at him to cut it out before she’s not blocking him from view anymore, only the door bursts open at that second, heavy footsteps hurrying in before pausing at this sight before them.
Anton moves on, pretending to kiss her neck. He leans into her ear. “Three of them. Two in range, the third behind.”
As soon as he reports, Calla’s nerves sing with awareness, pinpointing thethree new presences in the room, sensing their distance and their placements, halted by the doorway.
“Understood,” Calla whispers in reply. Then, she plucks out the two knives tucked in each of his pockets and whirls around, throwing them both.
Onethunkafter the other, they land in the two men’s throats. The third scrambles to raise the weapon in his hands, but by then Calla has already slid across the carpet and retrieved her sword. She pierces the blade through his stomach. A tug, another swing. He falls.
Anton marches across the room and retrieves his knives. He backtracks quickly for her wristband under the chair cushion and shoves it in her jacket pocket before tossing the garment in her direction.
“Don’t get cold.”
She catches it with her free hand. “When I’m with you?” Calla grins, swinging her jacket on. “Never.”
The fight resumes as soon as they reenter the corridor. One of the remaining men spots them and calls out. Before the force in the corridor have fully discerned how quickly their initial three men fell, Calla takes down two more, then kicks a third hard enough to knock him out. They jolt to attention, their attack turning coordinated. When Calla lifts her sword and tries to strike the next nearest man, she’s not only pushed back with a fast defense, but another to his left—the Weisanna—almost cuts her in half with a long blade that’s appeared out of nowhere. Calla manages to swerve; he only gets a shallow slash across her stomach. The sting is immediate, but she really should have zipped up her jacket. Calla spits a curse and swivels around, eyeing the distance back into the stairwell. Three paces away, Anton sprays blood across the wall when he gets a good hit on his own opponent. Still, they’re outnumbered, and from behind, Calla catches the blur of a blade—
“Anton, move!” Her sword slams in as interference, blocking the attack. It creates an opening through the fight, and much to her relief, Anton is fast. In the brief second while Anton is ducking away in the direction of the stairwell, Callakicks the man back. The moment she has her own opening, Calla charges for the stairwell too and thunders down the steps.
“Front entrance,” Calla shouts. Her voice rings with an echo.
“They’ll still give chase,” Anton warns.
“Then we hide again. Any other useless observations?”
“Princess, I really thought we were getting along—”
When they barge into the lobby, Seventy-Nine is waiting there, unprotected. He stares upon sighting them, calm and unexpressive, as if he’s not an active player of the games. The desk attendant has ducked under her chair, shielding herself. The courtesans have huddled into the corner, trying to create distance from the chaos. But Seventy-Nine does nothing. He seems to think that wearing fancy clothes is all he needs to protect him from life’s woes. He looks like a fucking fool—utterly useless, asking to be slaughtered.
Calla has her sword raised before she knows what she’s doing. She lunges, metal flashing in the light, but Anton tugs her back at once.
“There’s no time. We have to go.”
“He’s rightthere—”
“He’ll jump as soon as you attack. His men are on their way. Now!”
Calla stops resisting, letting Anton haul her to the front entrance. They return to the streets of Er, ducking into an alley and hurrying away from the hotel. Each thud of Calla’s boots reverberates with the sound of failure, mocking her retreat. By the time they’re out of range and have evaded the risk of being chased, Calla is deathly winded, resting against the wall with her arms wrapped around her middle. Her stomach stings with its cut. The bleeding has already stopped, though, so it’s nothing she needs to worry about. She zips her jacket, covering the damage.
