I look up at him, letting myself feel the throbbing ache deep in my jaw. Let it show in my eyes.
“Yes,” he says, his voice a mumble of shame, “that’s how you need to look.”
I nod stoically, running my tongue along my teeth, making sure none of them feel loose or damaged. Saber hits hard, and I have no doubt he was holding back. But my lip is definitely split, and I dab a handkerchief gingerly against it.
“He said come alone,” Saber mumbles, delivering the last of his vile taskmaster’s message.
I stop trying to convince him that I don’t blame him; it won’t make any difference. But I don’t. He has no choice, just as he’s always said.
That changes tonight.
* * *
—
MY CAR PULLS into the deserted parking lot of a decrepit warehouse—just the kind of setting I’d hoped for. With trembling hands I toss a collection of duffel bags out the door before exiting the vehicle, more nervous than afraid.
Luggage unloaded, I slip out and rise to my full height, heels included. I wonder what Reginald’s minions will make of me, decked out in my finery. No jewels; I’m not a glutton for punishment—or robbery. But my panniers are wide, my hair high, and flounces abound; it’s quite a departure from our first encounter. Do they know who I am, or has Reginald been keeping the royal nature of this business deal a personal secret?
I guess I’ll know soon enough.
A slew of thugs in dark leather jackets materializes from the shadows, stalking toward me with the predatory confidence of pack hunters that vastly outnumber their prey. The biggest of the lot shoves me away from the car as a thin one slides a set of thermal-imaging goggles over his eyes. He pokes his head through the open door of my vehicle and glances around.
“She’s alone,” he says in French, pulling off the goggles.
“Check the bags,” a fair-haired woman instructs, also in French. Four more goons unzip my bags, rifling through bound stacks of euros, waving bug detectors over every surface. I wonder briefly if this is standard procedure for Reginald’s organization or if I’m just getting the royal treatment—so to speak.
“Pat her down,” the woman orders, and the ruffians begin mussing my dress most unceremoniously—checking every seam and ruffle, turning out my pannier pockets, and in general handling me with completely unnecessary roughness. But the ordeal is over soon enough, and I don’t move so much as a muscle.
“I fear I can’t carry these all myself,” I say, addressing them in French, gesturing to the duffel bags once they’re zipped up again. I sling one over my shoulder, but they’re all essentially identical. “I’ll need your assistance.” The man in the lead—only my height, though he seems twice as broad—grunts and flicks his head toward the door of a warehouse, now propped open, a beam of cheap fluorescence pouring out into the night. I raise my chin and turn toward it, my gloved hands clasped tightly around the strap of the bag draped over my shoulder.
Reginald waits within, standing beneath the single buzzing light source, flanked by two men whose impressively large guns are pointed directly at me. I don’t let myself flinch. I walk to a space about two meters in front of Reginald and stand very still. Steady. I don’t even try to hide the split on my lip, though I did put makeup over the developing bruise on my cheek. He’d have expected no less.
“Put them there, please,” I say to the guards carrying the duffels, indicating the bare concrete to my left. “They’re not his yet. We haven’t made a deal.” This last sentence I direct at Reginald, who’s glaring at me as though I’ve done something very naughty rather than request a simple meeting between business partners. But he nods to his goons, who deposit the bags where I asked.
“Some of it is mine,” Reginald says in heavily accented English. “You owe me.”
“You’re right,” I say calmly. “I’d almost forgotten. Here, this one’s yours.” I lift the bag off my shoulder and toss it onto the ground between us, ignoring the cloud of dirt that puffs into the air when it lands. “Payment in full. And that’s all the payment you’re going to get, because I’m done. No more selling Glitter. I won’t do it.”
“And why not?” He manages to sound like a coiled snake, poised to strike.
All the more reason to remain calm. Utterly controlled. “You undermined me. You raised the concentration of Glitter in the cosmetics. I was trying to lower the doses my clientèle received—which is my right—and you sabotaged my efforts.”
“Which is my right,” he says with a grin.
“No, it isn’t. We had two deals. Two. And you’ve cheated me on both of them.”
“Cheated? Do you have any idea who I am?” Reginald bellows, his arms spread wide, the sudden volume taking me off-guard. “You are the demi-Queen of a false court, but I, I am the king of the streets of Paris.” He pauses, then takes a step closer. “I don’t think Saber’s lesson on manners went very far. Perhaps you need a refresher.”
I say nothing, though every nerve within me itches to argue, and I can almost hear Saber insisting that I run.
“You’ve become more trouble than you’re worth,” Reginald says, giving me his back. Coward. “The time has come to give you what you paid for. You’re leaving. Tonight.”
“Not without Saber.”
Reginald spins back to face me, his face reddening as he shouts, “Saber has nothing to do with you!” Then, straightening his leather coat, he continues, almost conversationally. “I need him to continue working in Versailles. Now that Glitter is so popular, I have no doubt he can help me find a new seller. There’s probably a dozen who would sell their souls to take your place in my business.”
“One in particular.”
“Excuse me?” I’ve finally caught him off-guard.
I look up with one eyebrow arched, as though I had not a care in the world. “There’s one lady in particular who would do anything to redeem her place at court. And she’d be especially eager if she heard she was replacing me. You don’t need Saber. Let me have him, and I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
He places a hand on his hip and slouches. “I feel as though we’ve had this conversation before. And it was boring the first time, too.”
“Then let me make it interesting. Five million euros, cash. You told me last time I could have him if I paid for him. I’ll pay you a Queen’s ransom—the same price I paid you for my own freedom, not that you’ve ever delivered. That’s got to be quite a return on your initial investment.”
Reginald’s eyes narrow. He hasn’t made a decision, but I’ve caught his interest.
“Five million euros,” I say, nodding to the bags resting on the ground near me. “On top of the two in that bag that I already owed. That’s you and me square, plus a combined ten million euros for one Queen and one nobody. I think that’s more than fair.”
“Or,” Reginald says, and guns click to life all around me, “I could kill you for being an underhanded bitch and just take the ten million euros. I think that’s an even better deal.”
“If that’s how you want to play it,” I say, shrugging. I blink carefully to activate my Lens, then close my eyes and take a deep breath as the air around me explodes with gunfire.
I HOLD VERY STILL. Bots are exceptionally accurate, and if I remain completely motionless, I should be fine. It’s hard to convince myself of that when I feel the rush of air from a bullet that zips past my nose. But when the noise dies down, nothing hurts. That’s likely a good sign.
I open my eyes to see the mass-produced profiles of my press-ganged bots rolling into the room, having shot their way through the flimsy aluminum walls with guns from the palace armory gripped in their three-fingered hands. I had a plan B programmed just in case the walls were more solid, but this was the least risky option. For me. The position of senior vice president of palace security at Versailles comes with some fabulous perks—and truly, it’s hardly any w
ork at all. No wonder they reserve it for princelings.
All of Reginald’s guards are down, though there are groans coming from at least two of them. Reginald himself is crouched on one knee in the center of the carnage, looking satisfyingly surprised to find himself alive. Not safe—my bots have their guns trained on him—but alive.
“Duchess?” I say, and one of the bots turns and rolls toward me. A compartment on her back opens, and I retrieve the handgun within. “Thank you,” I say. Even in a life-and-death situation, one ought still observe social niceties, if possible.
As Duchess returns to her post, I add my firearm to the dozen already pointing at Reginald. He flinches—perhaps sensing that with my human frailty I’m likely more dangerous than the bots. Smart man.
“You’re insane,” he spits.
Well, perhaps not that smart.
“Did you really do this? Bring military hardware onto foreign soil to assault French citizens?” Reginald laughs. “I wonder, how many treaties do your little friends violate just by existing?”
Truly? “I didn’t come here to talk politics.”
“No? Then let’s talk commerce. I’m impressed by your demonstration. I’m sure I can find buyers for every murderbot you can deliver.” He grins, holding his hand out in excitement. “If you think slinging Glitter has been profitable, the international arms trade is going to blow your mind.”
I’m almost impressed at how quickly he’s shifted from threatening me to pitching me a new deal—talking fast, looking for a way to regain control of the situation. But this is my show. “Did you bring Saber’s slaveminder, as instructed in my note?”
Reginald rolls his eyes and reaches for a messenger bag that looks disturbingly like the one Saber always carries.
“Stop!” I order, and his fingers halt centimeters from the satchel. “I haven’t gotten to where I am now by getting myself dead,” I say; I’m sure he’ll remember speaking those words to me, back in the catacombs, a lifetime ago. “One hand only, and move very, very slowly. And just so you know,” I add as he uses one finger to prop open the lip of the bag, showing me exactly what he’s reaching for, “the bots are monitoring my heart rate. If I die, you die.”
“Message received,” Reginald grumbles.
“You know,” I say, unable to resist the urge to brag just a little, “in this age of technology—on the very cusp of the robotic revolution, in fact—I would have thought you’d do more than simply scan my vehicle for warm bodies. Luckily, I wagered on you underestimating me. Most people do. Something about a pretty dress makes people think there’s no brain atop it. More fools they.”
Reginald glares up at me with a ferocity that makes me very glad to have more than just my own gun pointing at him. In his hand is a surprisingly small device—a black cube about the size of my fist. He holds it up wordlessly.
“I had no intention of doing anything but making a deal here tonight, Reg,” I say, enjoying the narrowing of his eyes at the diminutive. “You’re the one who tried to cheat me. Again. Clearly there’s no honor among thieves. And we both know you’re a thief. You have no one to blame but yourself.”
I give him a chance to speak, but he continues to glower in silence.
“I made the offer—I have no intention of reneging. I’m still willing to pay you the five million for Saber. And I fully intend to use your services to spirit the two of us away. In addition,” I say, raising one gloved finger, “I’ll also tell you the best person to replace me as your contact in Sonoman-Versailles. Because I’m a woman of my word, even when those I deal with are not. Now, do we have a deal?”
“A deal at gunpoint?” Reginald scoffs.
“We both know the gun isn’t to convince you—it’s very rightly to protect me. I’ll ask you one more time, and one more time only: Do we have a deal?”
He waves his hand, almost dismissively. “Yes, yes, of course we have a deal. What kind of moron do you think I am? I’ll take your damned deal.”
“Good. Before we begin let’s get specific about the fine print, as you once called it. When will you take us away?”
“Can you leave tonight? It’s not all that hard on my end.”
“You bring me Saber and I can leave, yes.”
“Then tonight.”
“Together?”
“Together,” he says as though I’ve tortured the word out of him.
“I want the transfer of Saber’s ownership made right now. I don’t want you pulling anything between now and when we’re reunited on the basis that you own him.” I straighten the arm holding the gun a little more as I speak, and Reginald definitely notices.
“Fine,” he says, looking down at the little device. “It’s simple—I enter my code, I indicate a change of ownership, and then you choose your own new code.”
“Do it.”
He messes with the device for a moment, then holds it up where a blinking cursor is visible. “Your turn,” he says, and starts to rise from his knee.
“Oh no,” I say, taking half a step forward. “You stay where you are. That bot nearest you? Give it to her. Countess,” I say, “bring that device to me.”
A flicker of rage crosses Reginald’s face, confirming my suspicions. He really is a nasty piece of work. The bot brings me the slaveminder—so small and simple a device for such a monstrous purpose.
“Enter your own code,” he says, sounding bored.
“Any rules about the code?” I ask skeptically.
“Nope. It’s quite user-friendly.”
I choose a nine-digit code, making very sure to type it correctly, and store it firmly in my memory. When I enter it, a line of type flashes across the screen:
TRANSFER COMPLETE
I have trouble breathing for a moment. It’s done. I lift both eyebrows haughtily. “Very well, he’s mine now. It’s no mystery what I intend to do with him.” I hold out the device. “How do I set him free?”
Reginald gives a low, vicious chuckle. “You’re too soft, Danica. But whatever; he’s your business now. Freeing him is simple enough. Put in your code and scan his mark. It’ll give you an option to deactivate the collar. You won’t have to worry about a countdown ever again.”
Collar. Of course that’s what the device implanted in Saber’s brain is called. I suppress a shudder at the wickedness of some people’s ingenuity. “I just push the deactivation button?”
“And all your problems go away,” Reginald says with a hint of a smile.
“None of this is funny,” I say, straightening my arm with my finger on the trigger.
“No, of course not,” he says, sobering.
I shoot him in the leg.
He screams, high and clear, then bites it off with a string of French invectives. “Why the hell did you do that?” he bellows, hands clamped hard on his right thigh. “You might have hit an artery! I could bleed out!”
“Because you lied,” I say, very calmly. “Again. Just as I knew you would. Now that we both know I’m not buying your bullshit, care to tell me what the deactivation button does?”
He glares at me with hate-filled eyes, but I point my gun at his other thigh, and he raises one bloody hand to stay me. “All right, all right. Deactivate the collar, deactivate the slave. Forever. Dead. Okay?”
“Ah,” I say. “So you would not only have cheated me out of the slave I just bought—for an exorbitant price, mind you—but killed a completely innocent man just to prevent me from getting what I want?”
“I don’t like you,” he spits, his face blanching from the pain.
“The feeling is mutual, but you’d better find it in your heart to answer my questions honestly if you want some medical aid, hadn’t you?” I gesture at my robotic security retinue. “My bots are fully programmed for first aid. I imagine they could have you all patched up in five minutes—if you’d give me the information I need.”
??
?Fine!” Reginald says, breathing hard. “But you won’t like the answer. You can’t free a slave. Why would anyone dealing in slaves leave security holes for do-gooders to exploit? It’s a one-way trip. There is no freedom for a slave.” He manages a pain-filled grin. “Only a prettier master.”
That I didn’t expect, and bile rises in my throat at the realization that my intention to “own” Saber only until our next meeting has become, quite possibly, a lifelong commitment. But I swallow my panic—it’s a knot I’ll have to untangle later.
“So tell me how to reset his countdown.”
“When you get back to that little worm, you enter your code again, and use the scanner on the back to read the mark on his arm. It’ll ask how much time to add, but you can’t go higher than fourteen days. That’s the final step.” His voice is ragged and sweat has broken out on his forehead. “Same process every time the clock gets low. Don’t suppose these bots of yours have any morphine, eh?”
“No more lies?” I ask sternly.
“None,” Reginald grunts through gritted teeth, looking like he’s about to lose consciousness. “Now get these bots to work on me!”
I point my gun at his manhood. “Should I shoot off your bollocks just to ensure you’re not lying?”
“Damned female, I’m telling you the truth.” His face is white, and a growing puddle of maroon has formed beneath his leg. His arms are shaking and desperation shines in his eyes.
“I rather think you are,” I say softly.
“Are we done, then?” he rasps.
I hesitate, as though mulling it over. Then I raise the gun a few centimeters and pull the trigger, splattering his brains all over the concrete floor.
“Yes, Reginald, I do believe we are.”
I EXPECT TO feel victorious on my way back to the palace. Instead, I feel numb. Perhaps I’ll never feel again. If I do, then I’ll have to feel what must certainly be the proper emotions associated with killing a man in cold blood.