Shadow Touched

10. NAIMA

A Badger Game requires many skills: precision, timing—the ability to ensnare your mark quickly, efficiently, and thoroughly. In my experience, Badger Games tend to work because sex sells. Men, as a whole, can be somewhat repulsive. You throw anyone at them, legs open; more often than not, they'll pick up what's being put down.

I'm being too harsh. I've known a woman or two for whom you could say the same thing.

Regardless, a Badger Game is a dependable heist, assuming you have the measure of your mark. No two targets are the same. Where a come hither look may be enough to secure one mark, another may require a bit of wooing, flowers, candy—all of that. When it comes to the good Lord Pemberton, I know he's a bit of both. A sweet smile and a perfectly timed wink are enough to intrigue him. Yet, he expects potential partners to present a romantic ideal. Pale to the point of being almost sickly, thin, dressed in Black and melancholic in nature—that's the kind of man Edwin Pemberton is drawn to.

Fortunately for us, Keaton has a few of those qualities. He's tall. Skinny. Pale. So pale, in fact, that I've often said if the moon ever falls from the sky, there's no need to worry, we'll just replace it with him.

Does he give off an air of romance? No. Does he exude a sorrowful demeanour? Not even a little bit. Keaton is annoyingly pleasant. He's a real good-time guy. It's what makes him such a successful pickpocket. No one ever suspects the fella in the pub with the entertaining stories and bombastic jokes to be the one who's pilfered their pockets.

It's not like we're working with nothing. He does have big, beautiful, mournful eyes. Dark as a bottomless cavern, wide and bright too. With the right coaching, those eyes can be made to scream romance! at Lord Pemberton.

It's been a week since we last sat in The Dog's Bollocks working out our plan. Because I know Lord Pemberton will be a mark who will require a bit of wooing, we needed to get to work on Keaton immediately. Much to his chagrin, we've spent the past seven days trying to prep him. We made him bathe. Vipes trimmed his hair, keeping it long while making it presentable.

We visited with Belle, who runs the best brothel in Onhama—the Seven Belles—to get some choice clothing for Keaton. We settled on dark sage tweed trousers with a matching waistcoat and a crisp white long-sleeved shirt rolled to the elbows to give off an air of nonchalance and coolness. After all, there's nothing sexier than a man with rolled-up sleeves.

And now here we are. It's first thing in the morning, and we're back at Belle's, with Keaton standing before us. Vipes and I have spent the last hour trying once more to teach him how to be less Keaton.

He stands before Vipes, Belle and myself, hand in his pockets as we instruct him how to carry himself, how to flash a smile that doesn't scream, I'm a creep! How to lower his voice in that way that speaks to things we do in the dark.

"You need to be more come hither," Vipes says.

"Really, Keaton, it's a wonder you're not a virgin; you have no concept of what it is to flirt." I chastise.

He shifts with agitation.

"If you two think you can do better, go ahead." He snaps.

"Easy, now," I say, hands up as I try to calm him down. He scowls at me, his lower lip jutting out as he attempts to practice his come hither gaze in the mirror.

"Can't you be, I don't know, less you?" Vipes asks with a drawl.

Keaton turns on his heel. His face is red as he sputters something unintelligible. His accent is so thick his words are garbled. Belle interjects, raising her delicate, slim hand. The three of us fall silent immediately. There's something unbelievably commanding about the Madame, even though she is always the epitome of feminine gentility.