I walked out of the private booth with a spring in my step, and not the kind that was becoming popular to install in both legs.

I was in a small corridor, the doors to the private booths lining both sides of it. To my right, Lord Montague’s bodyguard and a stone wall. To my left, the sound of a tavern in the middle of a busy afternoon. We must have been the only ones using a booth right now.

Despite the emptiness of the booths, given the noise of conversation and general raucousness, the Hells’ Own was rather busy. Even for a time when most would be working, Hells' Own never failed to attract customers. An establishment that had been here when I was born and would probably be long after I died, and I went to serve some damned prince in the Hells.

The entire tavern’s structure was stone, polished marble on most surfaces, and granite where you weren’t likely to see it. It was a necessity after the previous four Hells' Owns burned to the ground. It was a testament to everyone’s collective idiocy that it had taken that long to realize that even a partially wooden tavern was not the best idea around those descended from Hells' lines.

Behind me, Lord Montague’s appearance had already been changed to a much different person. Stooped, grey-haired, and an extra hundred pounds on his frame, he bore a fair bit of resemblance to Lord Thierry. Lord Montague’s pick of who to disguise himself as was as petty as I expected. Lord Thierry, if the rumor mill was accurate, still nursed a grudge against Lord Montague for the crime of having married his daughter. Not fleshshifting, Lord Montague must be using an illusion, either cracking open a one-use spell or a more permanent version latched onto an item. An effective defense against anyone trying to sneak a peek.

It was difficult to see inside the booths from the main tavern, but when you have a reputation on the line, it pays to be paranoid. I was just beginning to amass a positive one for myself.

“Pleasure doing business with you again, my lord,” I said, curtsying.

The face drew itself up into a smile, but the eyes definitely did not match. Oh, if his Lordship possessed even an ounce of magical talent, I might very well be dead.

Such a pity all your wealth and class cannot purchase you that, Lord Montague.

The door hurriedly slid shut, leaving me facing an intricately carved series of woodcuts.

Lord Montague would not take the door, of course. There was a hatch in the booth that would lead to the tunnels underground, along with probably a much larger group of bodyguards than up here.

Drawing myself up from my curtsy, I turned my recovery into a spin on my hooves to face the Lord’s bodyguard. “Should I move out of your way to get out, or are you capable of it on your own, my fine sir?”

The bodyguard outside the door gave me a scornful glare. Enhanced, probably through alchemy or sculpting, the human was taller and broader than most natural-born orcs. His arms were easily the size of most people’s heads. A rifle resembling a small cannon and a saber the size of a greatsword tied to his flank.

Whoever had done his modifications was either an amateur or exploiting nobles with little idea of how sculpting worked. This much muscle mass and likely an expanded skeleton to keep it all able to function, with organs enlarged to match? Not only was there so much that could go wrong in the process, it was prohibitively expensive. It would be much easier to employ an orc, an ogre, or one of a dozen races and use them as the baseline.

Then again, given his master, not looking at all like a non-human was probably a perk.

He didn’t bother to check on Lord Montague or even answer me, already heading for the exit. My scramble to escape ahead of him before I got crushed between his bulk and the wall might have seemed undignified to the untrained eye. I moved swiftly to the side as he continued past, not really caring who was in his way.

Likely a mental link to his master as well, to be kept outside the booth. A wide berth cleared in his path, a few jeers thrown his way from patrons far enough away not to worry about attracting his wrath. The disruption caused in his wake did not last long once he was heading out the door, leaving me alone to make my exit.

The common room was host to an assortment of infernal-blooded coming for relaxation, a drink, some time away from their troubles, or to meet with others. An occasional sprinkling of humans, gnomes, and others. Typically, those with business here in the quarter enjoying a moment in one of the safer places in the Infernal Quarter.

I weaved my way through packed-together tables on the one open floor, flowing through the seated crowd. More floors lay currently unused this early in the day up above, waiting to fill the establishment to capacity.

Someone tried to slap my rear, only for my tail to intercede on my behalf, wrapping around their wrist. Barely paying attention, I redirected the offending limb to slap its owner across the face. I spared barely a glance for the violet-skinner with four horns now being laughed at by her friends over the failed attempt. I was more focused on an actual potential threat.

Eight of them clustered around a table that never went unoccupied, overcoats covering what would surely be an arsenal. Most of them were deep in their cups already, only two alert. A flaming goat’s head had been cut into each of their right arms. Local gang members would come to Hells' Own on occasion, but only Versalicci’s stayed in the inn all hours of the day.

The two sentries glared at me as I walked past, but no other reaction. Good.

I’d considered leaving immediately, but on second thought, perhaps a few moments in here wouldn’t be uncalled for. I might as well pay Tolman for keeping an eye on Lord Montague’s bodyguard, visit Edwards at the bar, and get a drink as well. Tolman wouldn’t mind waiting a few days for payment, but best to get it handled now.

I made my way to the bartender, past the same violet-skinned as before who kept her hands to herself this time. She did have the decency to look apologetic.

She had the green coat of the imperial regiments on, as did most of the tavern, which wasn’t a shock. With the campaigns in Avenland winding down, regiments had been rotating out of the conflict back home.

Most others had at least restrained themselves to looks and a few whistles. I forced a smile as I walked past. It wasn’t worth starting a fight over, I told myself. It was infuriating, but confronting them over it could just result in a fight with a whole squad of people trained in violence. I swallowed my pride and marked the table to be given a far berth on my way out of Hells' Own.

That was not the reaction I was looking for from anyone. I couldn’t tell if it was just being one of the few nicely dressed people here or if I’d overdone it on the sculpting earlier.

I’d touched up my Falara disguise, just slight modifications to gain any edge I could. I couldn’t stray too far from the form I’d established as Falara, or it would draw attention. I was still recognizably her, just with a few little tweaks. Toning down my fiendish traits had been the correct call with Lord Montague.

“Miss Falara,” the bartender greeted me. “I presume your meeting went well?”

“Mr. Edwards,” I replied. “You presume correctly. I thank you for letting me rent one of your private booths. Are there any issues underground?”

“None. I heard from my staff just a few seconds ago. Your client took his entourage and left. Seemed rather upset, but that’s not unusual. Anything else I can do for you today?”

Edward Edwards. Either a fake name or very unimaginative parents. For the bartender and owner of a bar named for the hells and often serving those who could trace their lineage back to it, Edward didn’t show any sign of the Infernal’s touch. He was, I was quite sure, human.

Well, at a minimum, he wasn’t Infernal. Bald head, big mustache, the kind of face you wanted to tell your life story to, and the ear to listen to it. I’d never seen any signs of them, but at times, I wondered if the good Mr. Edwards had more than a bit of biosculpting done.

One of the dangers of our craft, doing both biosculpting and alchemy, you wondered if someone’s natural appearance was too good to be true.

“Another draft of my usual order, Mr. Edwards. Actually, perhaps a little stronger this time?”

“A little stronger will cost you a little extra.”

I was well aware, and I usually wouldn’t pay for Edward to water down his product slightly less. However, I needed something to take my mind off that latest meeting. I’d pursued a higher class of clientele to have weapons pointed at me less often, not more.

“I’ll pay. Double the usual amount.”

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

He was already filling a tankard partway full of mead. I fished through my coin purse for coinage. I wouldn’t use Lord Montague’s advance to pay anyone but Tolman today. There was no need to tip people off about my newfound wealth.

I had retrieved the correct amount by the time he moved the tankard to a series of pipes. He opened one up and let it fill the tankard the rest of the way up.

In seconds, I had a full tankard in front of me, and I enjoyed the aroma for a few moments before taking a drink. The honey tone of mead mixed to form a most delightful taste with the searing flavoring of sulfur added as an additive.

Sulfur hit stronger than most forms of alcohol and tasted like Heaven poured into a bottle. Ironic. No one was quite sure exactly why, like many of the questions that had seen Infernal-bloods cut open over the centuries to answer.

While I enjoyed my drink, Edwards started talking again.

“The bodyguard spent most of the time sitting outside your private booth looking bored. At the end there, he looked as uncomfortable as could be.”

“I’d imagine so. Harsh words were traded, and the Lord made a not-very-subtle threat on my life. Either his lordship was loud enough for his bodyguard to hear, or they had some other form of communication.”

“You sure that’s something you should be saying to me? I doubt his lordship would appreciate others saying he’s in the habit of threatening those he’s dealing with.”

“Oh, I always like to toss you a juicy piece of gossip as a little bit of extra payment, Edward. Besides, one time is hardly a habit.”

It wasn’t anything Edward didn’t already know. I didn't doubt the soundproofing of the booths. Edward would swiftly be out of business if that ever came into doubt. But someone watching through a hidden viewing port to keep an eye on the occupants? Much more likely.

I took a few more swallows of the sulfured mead, then put the tankard and some more coins on the counter.

“Refill if you don’t mind, Mr. Edwards. Your tip is in there as well.”

He counted the coinage quickly. “One refill coming right up. You’re a much better tipper than you used to be.”

Ah. Not good. I instructed the nerves under my skin to keep the smile on my face there.

“Really? How so?”

“When you first came here a few years ago, you tipped poorly. It’s increased the longer you’ve come, though.”

I released my hold on the nerves and let the smile become natural instead. “I suppose I have. Well, good service over the years begets a better tip, and a wealthier clientele means more to tip with.”

Edwards chuckled, and I left, perhaps a bit too eager to get away from the bartender. I forced my step to slow as I approached a table near the private booths.

At it, another Infernal-blooded appeared to be fast asleep. His face wasn’t visible, obscured by long red hair and a heavy overcoat. Most of his clothing was baggy, hiding the high-grade augments under his skin. Unlike the mutilated mangler of a man Lord Montague employed, his augmentations didn’t alter his frame to the point of unnaturalness. As they should, considering who’d sculpted them.

I sat beside him, putting the full tankard by his side. His hand snapped to the handle while I rooted through Lord Montague’s coin purse.

“That your pay, or did you nab something else off of him?” he rasped, voice sounding like it had been shredded on its way through his throat. His face was now visible, an infernal teetering in that space between youth and middle age, and still having some rakish charm from the original face.

I’d have given him more when making the modifications, but what the customer wants, the customer gets.

“Don’t make insinuations that you know likely aren’t true,” I replied. “I run a business, Tolman. Not a scam or a pickpocketing ring. I have your pay and a little treat for you besides.”

Tolman had already drained a third of the tankard before I finished.

“Either Edward is watering this swill down more than before or you take this far lighter than you used to. Where’s your sense of taste, Falara?”

“Floating downriver for a few weeks now. Accompanied by my first liver. There’s only so much sulfur and brimstone one can mix with alcohol before the effect is rendered meaningless, Tolman.”

He considered my words, then cocked his head to the side. “Nah. We talked enough about your poor taste in drinks. You got my coin for guarding you?”

“Well, he did threaten me in there, and I didn’t see you entering, so I think a reduction in cost might be worth negotiating for.”

He snorted, “Your words were, and I quote, ‘Keep an eye on the large one with the sword and rifle. If the bodyguard starts heading into the booth, handle him. If not, enjoy the most peaceful morning of your week.’ So I figure I’m owed my full payment.”

“Yes, yes. Allow me my jokes, Tolman?” I counted out the precise amount, hiding it behind my coat. Trading this much coin openly in Hells' Own would invite attention I didn’t want.

“This should cover us, in addition to a little extra. I want to attach a request to that bonus. Don’t strain yourself too hard in the fighting pits, okay Tolman?”

“Worried I’ll get injured?”

“Something like that. Also, I might have another job for you later this week.”

I’d probably visit Lord Montague’s to make sure the elixir was working correctly. It would be unwise to step inside that man’s house without some form of protection.

“I’ll do my best to keep myself in one piece. No guarantees. Big prize purse coming up this week. Ironhand Jack’s come back and has been working his way through the fighting pits. Got half a mind to send him back down to the bottom.”

“You think you can take him? Didn’t he almost break your horn off last time you two brawled?”

It had taken the better part of a week to get that repaired and new growth to fill in the parts ripped open by that blow. Keratin could be so much more difficult to work with than flesh, speaking as someone who’d had their hooves stripped off more than once.

“I’ve gotten better since then. He hadn’t fought in three years until he decided to get back into the fights. He’s got rust.”

I clasped his hand in mine, handing off the coins in the same notion. “Just promise to keep yourself safe?”

“If only you’d cared this much in the past. See you around, Falara.”

I didn’t flinch despite the urge. Although it had been light-hearted, that statement about Falara contained too much truth. Both about her and my past as Malvia. I made a quick exit from the tavern.

Above me, the fourth sun, Illvare, burned the same crimson edge around a black center it had since the Hells had been invaded, approaching two hundred years now. The further from the hells you traveled, the less of Ilvare was eaten by the Black. Here, which was the staging grounds for one of those invasions? The black center consumed nearly the entire sun.

No clouds today, so you could see the two lines cutting the sky into quarters. The Two Rings, the two planets. Eternally rotating around the center of our little patch of space. Not worth looking at unless you liked being reminded how tiny you were, along for the ride on the surface of one of them.

I checked to make sure the coin purse was securely hidden. It hurt to part with so many coins so soon after payment, but Tolman was worth every penny. When dealing with an unknown quantity, best to take every precaution. Still, every coin lost hurt.

Refreshing my defensive spells, consulting with a few experts I knew, paying for more information on Lord Montague, renting the booth from Edward, Tolman’s advance pay, all told it had devoured a third of my payment from Lady Karsin. The rest had already disappeared into my expenses. It had gotten tight.

I’d been unwise with my finances, chasing after upper-class, more reputable customers. Less time for smaller customers had put a strain on finances.

I’d spent a few days eating things even Lord Montague wouldn’t believe Infernals would eat. But no more. It had finally paid off. Nestled inside my coat, in a hidden pocket, the advance payment was a sign of that turning around.

I walked onto the streets of Avernon’s Infernal Quarter and immediately nearly became crushed in the crowd. No carriage or automatons traveled these roads, but the sheer number of other Infernals packed the roads tight even then. Some of these roads hadn’t been expanded since the Hells had invaded.

We were a year and a half from the two-hundredth anniversary. No one would celebrate that bicentennial.

Even two hundred years removed from it all, some wounds lay deep. First, the attempted colonization of the Hells, then the Hells colonizing back, the peace sealed by the Infernal Union, the rise of Her Most Profane Majesty, then her fall at the hands of her niece, the Shining Princess Alice.

Speaking of her imperial majesty, while the crowd's noise was overpowering, you could still hear bits of the criers yelling to sell their papers. Exaggerated as always, but I’d heard a few words I hadn’t liked.

It took a while to get over to one and pay the young lad out of my regular coin purse, but soon I had the latest edition of the Globe to read.

Let’s see, tensions increasing with Dreuvia, the possibility of war, and increased conscription in the Infernal Quarter. I was likely safe thanks to the fake alchemy license I’d bought, but I’d need to figure out a way to cover for Tolman. His husband as well. That would mean more money to be spent while the Infernal Quarters were picked for frontline troops.

We were still considered in many ways accountable for the Hells' takeover of the empire. A mixture of those events and our ancestors, or parents in many cases including mine, being willing to be an Infernal. These days deals with the devils were banned so natural births were the most common. I suppose no one could expect the royal family’s attitude toward us to change. Not while Empress Alice, once the Shining Princess, still sat on the throne.

There wasn’t much else in the paper I hadn’t heard before. Rumors about a new case being taken up by Voltar and Dawes. I wished the worst of luck to those two. Articles on the new advances in clockworks. Those were becoming more common. A dragon sighting north of the city. That might be worth a trek to see if any materials could be scavenged. Even a dragon’s castoffs could be powerful.

Sighing, I prepared for today’s trek. My apartment wasn’t far away, but I’d dressed up for this occasion. For the Infernal Quarter, this meant a dress and coat combination that might be good enough to sneak in as a servant at a Baronet’s evening party. It did mean taking out all the places where it was likely to get me stabbed, half an hour's trek at the shortest.

Still, money in the pocket made for a lighter step, and I’d already made it halfway down the street, sticking to the far sides. It put me closer to the alleys, always a danger, but I’d honed my reflexes myself earlier today. The probably drunk violet-skinned from before had shown they’d worked. Getting the jump on me was likely out of the reach of anyone who resorted to lurking in an alley.

A shadow passed overhead, getting astonished gasps from those in the streets, most children. I looked up and saw a scaled body flying up in the sky. A drake, a minor cousin to dragons. Not an unusual sight in the city, but not for the Infernal Quarter. Mildly concerning, but they were not flying for my lab, so not having found out and seeking revenge for me harvesting the Honorable Millicent Ferguseous Valicent’s brains for ingredients.

“Malvia,” someone hissed at me from an alley.

My right hand immediately went to a knife hidden in my dress. My head snapped to the right.

A green Infernal was in the alley, breathing deeply. Blood streamed from a dozen places, staining his trousers, shirt, and vest. A thin, gaunt face, with brown eyes and scars cutting across both cheeks stared at me, eyes desperate. Some of those were fresh, still bleeding. Ears cut down from past fights, thin tapering horns, a nose with a ring right through the middle. A flaming goat’s head had been carved into his right arm.

I knew this pale, sickly visage all too well. I’d made it. Golvar, a part of my past I’d thought left behind. I’d hoped it would never cross my paths again. I should have known better.

“Someone’s chasing me, Malvia! I got a package for Versalicci, and they’ve been trying to knife me all morning for it. You have to help me.”