{Gait}

“Peh Peh, Inanis cannot be explained. And the dozens of thousands of credits negative in your account proves that.”

The Executive Warden of Gait pushed her hands through her orange feathers when Razor turned his back on her. He leaned on the wrought-iron banister overlooking the Emporium. She considered simply killing him, but they weren’t alone. Shapes scurried in the dusky lighting as employees scattered to prepare for the grand reopening.

After procuring the adjacent warehouse space, the Pain Curator doubled the venue’s floor plan. An upscale restaurant, high-rent space for auctions, and a museum of ancient wares.

Oh, and six more charcoal Divine Booths. Like headstones, they lined the parquet floors, marking the death of another innocent. Those were the updated nacre port experiences. Two new booths occupied a dais on display. Massive, they were set apart from the others. They shone with a pearlescent light on white enamel.

Fully. Immersive.

An entirely new experience. And they exhibited only one person’s history. Only one person’s misery and pain.

Rayne.

Razor easily made several hundred million a night off that girl’s life. In the regular booths. Now, he stood to make a billion in profit. In a single night. Off Pehton’s soul.

And there he was, hassling her over a few hundred thousand in credits. “So, whose pain will suffice my debt this time?”

Yes. It always came to this. How could she sink so low over and over again?

What counts.

Right. Once again, Gait’s Executive Warden straightened her shoulders and held her chin high as Razor turned to assess her.

“Maybe this time, I’m not asking for someone’s pain, Peh Peh.” Brown fire danced in his eyes.

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She wondered many times if it’d ever come to this. And long ago, Pehton decided she wouldn’t fight him. Instead, she fought to keep her red gaze level with his.

Reduced. To this.

The man with skin the color of her nacre pushed away from the banister and stepped into her personal space. Razor searched her eyes as Pehton kept her ground. He inhaled and shook his head.

So close that when he spoke, their lips brushed, “I want many things from you, love. But that will never be one of them.”

That brokered no relief. Instead, her gliders flared. Not in anger, but in fear. And the twitch at his lips told Pehton that he knew.

“What do you want, Razor?” The steadiness of her voice surprised her. The tightness did not.

Razor went ahead and let that twitch stretch into a smirk. “Preoccupy our charming Icarus for me. And provide me with any updates on the big cell.”

Pehton frowned so hard that it hurt her head. “Korac? Why?”

He chuckled as he stepped around her in the vault’s direction. “Need I explain myself to you?”

When she turned around, he held Pehton’s vice in his blood-stained palms. Damn it. The Executive Warden redirected her tactics for more wiggle room. “I’ve given you everything else you’ve asked for, but risking my station on Gait is asking more than usual. The rate is higher, and the fee is information. Why Korac?”

The Curator tilted his head as if considering her terms. After a shrug, he casually offered, “The others are interested in him. And I want the Seamswalker as my own personal project. If he’s preoccupied, she’s available to me.”

Red flags. Big ones. Pehton fought not to wince. It hurt to admit it, but she liked Sagan. Ugh. And maybe, begrudgingly, a little, sorta, kinda was coming to tolerate the fallen General. Then it hit her, “What do you mean preoccupy him from her? He’s in Infernus block. No visitors.”

The man’s smile upped in the wattage as if he knew a secret.

Korac’s breakout. The stuff in the cell.

“Motherfucker!”

Razor’s rich laughter irritated her further.

Wow, she gave that guy a chance. And he abused her hospitality like that? Risked her station? If the Tribunal learned of this disgrace—

“This arrangement benefits us mutually, does it not?” He held out the device.

Blackmail. This was blackmail. A small part of her wanted to barter on behalf of Sagan. She was so much younger than all of them. Inexperienced. But if Pehton asked Razor to go easy on her, then he’d exploit the Executive Warden’s soft spot for his new fixation. No. Best keep it close to her chest. As always.

“I want a booth every time I perform a task.” She held up a pitch-black finger before he could argue. “If I lose Executive Warden rank, we both know what happens to me. I will not risk it for anything less than Every. Single. Task.”

“I can live with that, Peh Peh. But can you?”

As she snatched the device from his hand and headed for the booth, Pehton was confident that she could live with a lot worse.

Because she already did.