Thread of Darkness

Ch. 30: all my better angels

Penny looked up at the wooden sign.

The black paint was peeling, falling like ashes to the dirty alleyway floor. She squinted, trying to make out the letters in the oily yellow light. The Sailor's Jolly Delight. How appropriate. Next to her, Grayson was digging around in his drawstring purse for coins. The collar of his grey coat was flipped up, fluttering in the cool wind.

"So do we just...?" Penny looked up at the sign. "Knock?"

Grayson paused. "How would I know?"

"I assume you've been here before."

Grayson looked exasperated. "Is that really what you think of me?" He took out a fistful of gold coins. "No, I haven't been here before. Call me old fashioned, but I prefer to have... relations with women that actually want me."

Penny bit back a smile. "Relations?"

"Shut-up," Grayson muttered.

He raised a hand to the door, knocking in an odd pattern. Penny raised an eyebrow. Grayson shoved the coin purse deeper into his pocket. "What?" His blue eyes glittered. "You think that nobody's ever invited me to visit?"

A slat in the door slid open. Brown eyes squinted out at them.

"Lord Grayson." The voice was masculine, with a thick Libertasian accent. "And this is...?"

Penny smiled. "Lucinda."

She stepped forward, allowing the light to fall across her blonde wig. She was dressed in a short skirt and thigh-high boots, and her corseted top was digging into her ribcage. It had taken her and Maribel three seedy-looking shops to put together this outfit; four if you counted purchasing the wig. The man's gaze turned wary.

"We don't generally allow female clientele," he said.

Grayson slid the gold rukka through the slat. "Perhaps you'd be willing to make an exception."

The man scraped the coins towards him. Counted them. Nodded. "Welcome to the Jolly Delight, Your Lordship."

The door swung open.

Grayson gave her a warning look as they stepped through. Penny smiled. Emotions zipped through her: glee; lust; envy. She tasted the heady cinnamon of arousal, felt the liquid-hot rush of satisfaction. The ground felt unsteady beneath her feet.

Penny scanned the brothel. Red velvet drapes hung from the ceiling, accompanied by low-burning lamps and black couches. And there were people, she thought, people everywhere: laughing at card tables, and pressed against walls, and stumbling through concealed doors into bedrooms.

Beautiful women in silk slips were serving whisky and lounging on men's laps. Several smiled at Grayson as they passed, and a stab of jealousy hit her. Penny frowned, scanning the room for the source of it.

Oh, wait.

Her mouth went dry.

Penny slowed, her heart pounding. That was her emotion, wasn't it? She was jealous. She was still reeling from that discovery when Grayson touched her arm, his eyes fixed on a low table ahead of them.

"There," he murmured. "That's him."

Penny followed his gaze. A young man was lounging on a sofa, dressed in gold rings, a plum smoking jacket, and pressed trousers. His brown beard was neatly trimmed. A woman in a short chemise was sitting on his lap, holding a glass of clear liquid. He didn't look much like a drug dealer, Penny thought, but maybe that was the point.

She started toward them. Grayson held out an arm.

"Wait." Grayson's gaze was dark. "Burkhart doesn't like discussing business in front of women. He thinks that their sole purpose is to provide pleasure." His throat bobbed. "You'll need to act like..."