{Gait}

Pehton knew of the only back door into the Emporium. Near the kitchens and close to the basement entrance. The Pain Curator sealed it with adhesive made from nacre fibers. And the Executive Warden of Gait knew the exact trick for it.

Even in the dead of night, the light pollution illuminated Gait’s purple skies. The trash receptacles hovered overhead, clunky and smelly. Various manner of refuse painted the back alley in viscous blue and green fluids. Her carbon fiber boots splashed in it. Black silk wraps hid her orange feathers and arm gliders. She retracted her Lyriki armor. The bright blue was too arresting against the shadows she aimed to tread. Instead, she concealed her pitch-black muscle and curves beneath a mesh bodysuit. When she dressed, a thought occurred to her which made the petite female cringe.

Razor would approve.

Shaking off the shudder, Pehton approached the door and softly sang against it. The resonance told her to tweak the pitch until—Bingo. The nacre glass shattered, and the adhesive flaked away. She slipped inside with a good sweep to the left and right. Nothing. Entering the basement, the darkness swallowed her current choice of gear.

Not a stitch of color anywhere. Black walls, floors, ceiling ducts, metal pillars, and beams. Catwalks of black metal led forward and a mesh stair led to Hell’s lower circles. Affording only that brief glimpse, she kept onward with this floor and doubled back to the Emporium proper. The frosted glass ceiling, disguised as parquet flooring, provided the only light in this abyss. But it also oriented her to the desired destination. Below the mezzanine, now, she recalled Razor leading her from a stair in his vault to the bedroom suite.

As Pehton slinked below the building currently closed for the owner’s night off, she silently repeated her objectives. Maintain perspective. What counts.

One, raid his desk, libraries, archives—whatever to learn his plans for the Seamswalker. And anything else about the mysterious “others.” Two, anything at all hinting at Inanis and this Atheneum mystery. How did these things involve the taken children? Three, investigate suspicious accounts of slave intake linked to the Emporium.

The Executive Warden was aware of the unfortunate people who signed over their lives to the Pain Curator in exchange for credits at the end of their service. Unfortunately, that was perfectly legal. But the slave work? Him and her went a few rounds about that in the past. When she was first promoted to Executive.

Was she ready to go toe-to-toe with him again? About enslaved workers? Damn fucking straight. Pehton would happily unleash the Chorus for that offense. Of course, resorting to that weapon would kill the slaves along with everyone else on the planet, but she’d make her point—

Fuck!

Pehton ran into a blacked-out obstruction and almost knocked herself unconscious. It hurt her head so badly that even with a nacre she took a step back and cradled it while fighting not to swear aloud. It was a wall. With one hand stretched out, she followed along until it came to a corner. Turned and continued to follow. This was it. Razor’s bedroom.

Did she miscalculate? Was the only way in through those stairs in his second-floor vault? When inside, Pehton swore she noticed another door—

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There. Her hand brushed the seams of the entryway until she found exactly what she wanted. Sealed. With nacre filaments.

One soft song later, the Executive Warden entered a space that should never see an ultraviolet lamp. Upon her entry, perimeter lights illuminated along the walls. All black like the rest of the basement. Except the bed. Pehton frowned. The sheets were white. He changed them. Oh, and where were the—

Sixteen women, all pitch-black with varying height, descended on the Executive Warden. Their pretty faces hissing as they opened their mouths to sing.

Pehton ordered, “Stop. Return to your stations and await your owner.”

Without hesitation, the women with orange, yellow, and red feathers for hair dispersed deeper in the room until they melted into the darkness. Only one remained, but she wasn’t hissing.

Triss, lovely with the brightest red feathers, glided toward Pehton completely naked. Confident and alluring, she smiled seductively. “Hello, replacement. Did you come all this way because you missed me? Because you’re tired and want to step down and restore the title you stole from me?”

The current Executive Warden wanted to swallow hard against her apprehension, but stopped herself. “What happened to your volition? How did you break the bonds?”

“Oh, Pehton. You should know better. The Executive Warden never signs over her volition. Not even to the prison. Obviously, you didn’t.” Triss threw the first punch.

The orange-feathered Lyrik blocked with her gliders and ducked with a leg sweep. “What about Razor? How is he controlling you then—”

“He doesn’t. I love him.” Triss avoided the sweep with a backflip.

Pehton couldn’t hide the recoil or keep her lips from curling in disgust.

The more the Executive Warden reacted, the more fevered Triss became until she traced hands over herself like a lover and bit her full lips. “I worship the ground that man walks on and whatever he wants, I do it. He never has to ask. You gave me a gift. I can help him ignite the world around us and watch it burn safely from his lap.” Incoming side kick.

It caught Pehton square in the chest and sent her to the floor. Unnerved more than injured, she tried for logic, “You must know he doesn’t love you. Men like Razor can’t feel that way.”

Hands on hips, Triss shrugged. “He favors me. That’s all that matters. I’m the only Lyrik he fucks. He won’t even fuck that little Seamswalker he brought down here the other night. Because he wants me only.” She glided over to the door that Pehton entered. Her voice hardened into icy condescension. “Keep the promotion, Pehton. Leave the Lyriks here with us until you need them to flaunt the prison’s security like last time. Never return here. Consider me letting you live as my payment for the favor you’ve done me. I no longer serve the Tritans as their guard dog. As you do. I serve a real god.”

Pehton stared, aghast. This couldn’t be it. “Triss, my children—”

“Are dead.” No pity. No compassion. “Forget them and hold onto your life a while longer. You don’t want to experience Razor’s wrath. And it’s like I told your ex that came around here recently, nothing will turn me from him.” The impatient Lyrik folded her arms and leaned back against the wall, waiting.

Ex? No. “Celindria?” Why the hell would the First Progeny try to recruit from within the house of pain?

“Yea, that’s the one. Have a nice life, Pehton. While he lets you have it.”

And that’s how the Executive Warden found herself shuffling back through the basement with her tail feathers between her legs. Her only opportunity thwarted by the surprise of Triss’ compliance. How could Pehton get so many things wrong? How far did Razor’s claws dig into Gait? And why didn’t she simply kill Triss? The woman deserved it long ago.

No. The Executive Warden was completely blindsided. Shocked. She never imagined such a circumstance would overcome the prior Lyriki leader. What was this feeling? Guilt? Complicity? Triss was in this position—this madness—because of Pehton. Now Pehton’s mission took on one more objective. Putting that bitch out of her misery.

She imagined all the delightful scenarios as she exited the basement. Beheading. Fire. No, fire wouldn’t work—

Shit. She wasn’t alone.

“I was hoping to find you here.” The auburn-haired human leaned against a wall, eating a strange yellow fruit from Earth. He peeled the outer layer down and took a bite.

Caught. Again. Elden, this was demeaning. “Yea?”

“Why were you in Razor’s suite? And what did you and Triss talk about?”

An opening presented itself. And Pehton would certainly take it.