Morning greeted Ceres with sunlight sharp enough to cut diamonds. He squinted at the curtains, useless panels of fabric so tattered and moth-eaten that they might’ve come from a zombie’s wardrobe. With a groan, he buried his head under his pillow. Despite a night of restless sleep, he still debated his choice to let Udit go. Annoyingly, he’d found himself agreeing with her; while the locals might not blink at strangers engaging in a little light parkour or battling animals, one of their own disappearing would have the entire slum out for vengeance. She’d mentioned parents, but most girls also had brothers and he could envision hers vividly: a legion of lumbering bears, thick-skulled and impervious to reason—let alone persuasion.
She hadn’t given Dharun a heads-up, or Ceres would’ve had another unexpected roommate. But that didn’t rule out her conjuring up some noble—and idiotic—scheme. He could hear the eulogies now. “She’ll get herself killed,” he muttered to the empty room. He’d soon discover if she’d made it through last night, and if her commitment to their deal was as sturdy as her nerve.
He hoped so, on both counts, for reasons he couldn’t explain.
Sitting up, he looked around. The walls of his current home were adorned with a dizzying array of stains and smudges, reminiscent of abstract art gone terribly wrong. The floorboards creaked under him as he stood, making each step sound like the countdown to a haunting. No ghosts of dissatisfied guests lurked in the shadows and no Dharun, either, but the bed he’d just left seemed almost as determined to kill him. It sagged in the middle like a deflated balloon, what passed for sheets around here adorned with a patchwork of suspicious stains best left unexamined.
The fan overhead wheezed and rattled like an asthmatic walrus, its feeble attempts to cool the room only serving to circulate strange odors. He was used to heat, but Dharavi brought new meaning to the term. If he felt like he was being cooked inside an oven now, noon would be brutal.
Stripping naked, he strode into the bathroom.
Udit’s latest marvel of the cosmos resembled a decrepit maze, its worn tiles engaged in a losing battle against the relentless advance of mold. As he turned on the shower, he pondered what she’d think of his place in Chau Cera. Nestled snugly in the capital’s trendiest neighborhood, it was a mere stone’s throw from his childhood home. Living so close to his uncle was, to some, proof that he’d lost his mind but he wasn’t in danger; Galen might loathe him, but even emperors couldn’t withstand the wrath of the Brotherhood.
He scowled at his soap, contemplating its resemblance to recycled lard. In the clandestine world of assassins, he was one of the few who lived openly. His order had selected him to do so, for reasons both practical and obscure; most shrouded themselves in layers of deceit, their true selves a mystery even to their closest allies. Killing one assassin meant bringing down the order’s wrath and it had operatives—and allies—everywhere. The hand dealing death might belong to a faceless stranger, or to the familiar steward who’d served his morning tea for decades; Galen wouldn’t recognize the danger, until it was far too late.
Finally clean, Ceres wiped steam from the mirror and shaved.
When Udit left, oddly, he’d offered to escort her home. A courtier’s instincts died hard, it seemed. He’d been raised to believe that women needed his protection, but he’d also been raised wearing velvet and she’d handled herself just fine until now. He had finally succeeded in shocking her, though; she’d stared at him, bewildered, as though he’d begun reciting poetry to a cabbage.
He got dressed, still scowling, then polished his boots and cleaned his guns.
Then, ready, he went to find her.
The clerk drooped over his counter, snoring louder than the two beggars who’d made a nest on the floor. He half-expected Udit to emerge from a corner, ready with another moralizing sermon, but all he saw were dust bunnies the size of tumbleweeds. Disappointment pricked him briefly, smothered by the weight of the task ahead. His erstwhile captive had spun her web of words expertly, slipping through his fingers like an eel, but now it was his turn to play the hunter. With a resigned sigh, he pushed open the door and braced himself for Dharavi’s relentless sun.
Rickshaws careened past him, colliding like drunken dancers, and stirring up clouds of dust. A runner sent his comrade’s cart tumbling, spilling a wailing passenger, and soon they were brawling while a gang of grubby urchins cheered them on. Behind them, waiting patiently, was Udit.
She stood in the shelter of a potter’s awning, draped in her customary tattered garments. He strode across the street to join her, on the cusp of making a cutting remark about her lack of fashion sense, but a pang of realization halted his words. Perhaps she didn’t own anything else. “Good morning,” he offered instead, his tone carefully devoid of surprise.
“Hardly,” she quipped, squinting up at the sun. “You take your time.”
He favored her with a flat look. “You could’ve come inside.”
Her gaze narrowed. “How long do you spend each morning, on your hair?”
“Longer than you do,” he shot back. Then, navigating through the market’s sad collection of stalls, he procured two coffees and offered her one. He sipped his and grimaced, but she merely gazed at the cup. Although she’d returned as promised, whatever fleeting connection they’d shared the night before was gone. It’d evaporated like the night dew in this sizzling heat, leaving only suspicion. The realization frustrated him, and he stewed silently in the bustling chaos.
“There’s someone you should talk to,” she said, after a minute. “He knows your friend,” she added, careful not to mention Dharun’s name. “He might be able to help.”
Looking down at her, he wondered what’d changed her mind—about him and his mission. If, that was, she even had. “I’ve talked to dozens of people. No one here knows anything that I don’t.” He finished his coffee, the flavor assaulting his senses like a punch from a moldy boxing glove.
“You’re an outsider.” Her tone was patient, like she’d just explained for the tenth time that cows weren’t great at chess. “No one’s going to tell you the truth, or at least not the whole truth.”
She was right, of course. With a stab of irritation, he tossed his cup at an overflowing barrel before trudging forward. Threats needed leverage to work, which he didn’t have; he couldn’t make the locals’ lives worse. Bribes, on the other hand, were a mixed bag of truth and platitudes. This wasn’t home, where informants danced to his tune; in Dharavi, the locals spun sweet tales, then vanished along with them—leaving him holding the bag. “Where to now, then?”
Falling in beside him, she shrugged. “You’ll find out.”
Amidst their uneasy tension, a bizarre carnival danced on. Smiles adorned faces that should’ve been mournful; raucous laughter and chatter filled the air, drowning out any semblance of solemnity. Vendors hawked their wares from makeshift stalls, offering odds and ends alongside the occasional lemon, as children gleefully hit each other with sticks.
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Udit gestured for them to turn.
Exuding a stench that could double as paint remover, this street graduated from foul to downright repugnant. Rats who should’ve been wearing gas masks skittered over trash mounds reminiscent of technicolor snowbanks and the shallow depressions posing as gutters were filled to the brim with piss.
Casting a wary glance at the dilapidated rooftops looming above, the realization hit him once more: he was an idiot. The beautiful stranger beside him could very well be leading him into a trap; she had already shown a penchant for using him as a pincushion. His hand settled on his sidearm, a grim reminder of how frail trust truly was—in this desolate enclave, and everywhere.
She pretended not to notice. “We’re almost there.”
He studied her, wondering where there was. “How old are you?”
She seemed bemused at the question. “Nineteen. You?”
Lines of wash—or perhaps more avant-garde design—dangled from concealed ropes overhead. “Almost twenty-eight,” he said, sidestepping drips. She really did take him to the nicest places.
“You look older,” she commented.
This morning kept getting better and better, he thought darkly.
At the end of a third street, she stopped.
Before them rose a labyrinth of concrete, a packrat’s dream manifested in architecture. Three two-story behemoths crowded side by side, resembling shoe boxes left to rot in the muck. A fourth structure, a decrepit wooden lean-to, clung to existence like a stubborn rumor. Underneath it was another market, this one’s treasures even more dubious. Shoppers buzzed around nonetheless, their excitement palpable amidst the circus of clutter, while workers at the brothel upstairs called down suggestions so scandalous that even he was appalled.
Udit gestured at the market’s neighbor, a rundown hovel that’d likely begun as a garage and that now masqueraded as a—café, he guessed, of clearly questionable repute. The tumult of mismatched tables and chairs strewn around the concrete floor gave new meaning to the term dung heap, all under the absurd moniker of The Golden Lotus. Sensing his discomfort, she flashed a cheerful smile. “And you thought we were going somewhere unpleasant.”
She was enjoying this, the minx.
Grumbling to himself, he led them inside.
Bare bulbs hung from the ceiling, reminding him of tired fireflies, and the whole place smelled of compost heap. His companion, apparently unphased, flopped into the chair with the ease of a seasoned regular. As he cautiously settled into the adjacent seat, half-expecting it to crumple beneath him, a third individual appeared. He could’ve been a male model, albeit one who lived with pigs, and the smile he turned on Udit made him—upsettingly—even more attractive.
Taking his hand, she beamed right back. “Justi!”
Ceres fixed the interloper with a glare, which no one noticed.
He’d threatened her, kidnapped her, and she’d taken him to see her boyfriend?
Justi leaned down, his lips tickling her ear. “I didn’t think I’d see you until tonight.”
There were forks on the table, of the same battered variety that Udit had used. Stabbing Justi just under the clavicle would produce an exciting spray of blood, he thought, as these two idiots bantered. Finally, however, she remembered that he was there and introduced him. “This is—
“Ashna,” Ceres cut in smoothly, sliding his arm around her shoulders.
Justi’s eyes widened at the casually possessive gesture.
He smiled, fantasizing about eating Justi’s liver.
Udit tensed, like a snake had just encircled her. “Justi owns The Golden Lotus, with his mother.”
Turning, Ceres arched an eyebrow. “Then perhaps he could fetch some refreshments.”
Looking like he’d swallowed a kumquat, Justi stalked off. Ceres relaxed as Udit extracted herself from his embrace, no longer attempting to hide her disgust. “If you keep antagonizing him,” she hissed, “he’ll never come back and tell us what we want to know!”
“You don’t know men,” Ceres replied. His tone was bland.
Justi, now standing behind the bar, fixed him with a baleful expression.
He waved.
“I do,” she retorted acidly, “although most men don’t act like quite such warthogs. Were you raised in a barn?”
“In a palace,” he countered, observing the décor with interest.
“Maybe in the palace stables,” she grumbled, arms folded tightly across her chest. “Justi and I aren’t….” She paused, casting a skeptical glance at the hapless fop. He was supposed to be brewing tea, but seemed more adept at playing the role of victim. “He and I are just friends,” she concluded, with an emphasis on the word friends. “Friends, and nothing more.”
Ceres snorted. “I don’t think he got the memo.”
“What he gets,” she snapped, “and for that matter what I want is none of your business.”
He made a pacifying gesture. “Relax. I’ll be out of your hair soon, and then you’ll have the Teen Idol all to yourself. But in the meantime,” he added, his lips curving into a smirk, “a little competition might just toughen him up.”
Udit shot him a look that could curdle milk. “I don’t think you’ve got the greatest handle on what anybody needs.”
He shrugged. “If a man can’t fight for what he wants, he doesn’t want it that badly.”
Sniffing, she made a point of watching Justi.
After a few minutes, he draped his arm around her again. Stirring up Justi’s jealousy was like savoring a fine wine. The twit’s wounded pride, Udit’s visible revulsion, it was all too delicious. But beyond petty pleasures, he had more pressing reasons for playing the part of a couple; Dharun would have spies, too, all of whom were expecting a lone wolf. Yet, amidst his strategic musings, a nagging question lingered: did Udit find him remotely attractive? The thought that she probably didn’t was as disheartening as it was ego-bruising. And, dear God, he desperately needed to get laid. Here he was, risking life and limb, and all he could fixate on was the absurd notion of seeing a woman who hated him naked.
Dropping her gaze, she stared pointedly at his arm.
He winked.
Justi returned with three cups, slamming one down in front of him before plopping into the vacant seat. The tea he’d conjured resembled nothing short of bilious chartreuse lab waste, but at least he hadn’t bothered to poison it. Ceres eyed his own cup warily, but Udit managed to gag hers down with only the smallest grimace. “Wonderful,” she gasped, with clearly feigned delight. “As usual.”
Praising Justi’s nonexistent barista skills segued into a discussion of The Golden Lotus as a whole, and how this pit became a bar after dark. “An off-worlder with some strange stories has been coming in most nights,” she divulged. “Justi has been telling me about him.”
Justi’s gaze flickered to Ceres, before nodding solemnly. “He goes by Rahul, but I’m not convinced that that’s his real name. There are moments when he doesn’t respond to it and sometimes…sometimes I catch him talking to himself. He’s also carrying a gun, like yours.”