Page 63 of A Steeping of Blood (Blood and Tea #2)

FLICK

A Horned Guard minister was a rank above high captain, one rarely seen on the streets of White Roaring, for their work primarily consisted of sitting behind a desk.

Flick didn’t think she would find one at a tavern such as this.

She’d never been to a tavern before, only read about them in books and seen them at a distance.

Flick stayed as close to Jin as she could without stepping on his feet. Her shoes squelched in the mud. She felt eyes on her more than once, figures silhouetted against the darkening sky running across the narrow streets.

“Are you sure we’ll find a minister here?” she asked.

Flick fought her guilt. She’d promised Jin, but that didn’t stop her from feeling useless.

Arthie wanted them to meet with the Council simply so that Flick could forge one of their masks, but if Flick couldn’t hold a teacup, much less attempt to replicate a mask, how could she?

Was Jin silver-tongued enough to convince the Council to unmask the Ram themselves?

He was busy scanning their surroundings like a Horned Guard himself. Funnily enough, Flick didn’t see any guards patrolling this portion of the city. Nor were people here hiding away or protesting vampires.

“Certain. He goes by the name of Ward,” Matteo said, pulling open the door. It squealed like the pigs rolling in the mud just across the alley.

The hushed evening exploded into a bustling den of depravity.

Flick glanced at Jin, wondering if their surroundings had transported him back to Spindrift, but instead of nostalgia, she found his upper lip curled at the cruddy space.

She supposed it was wrong of her to equate such a mess to Spindrift.

The tavern was crammed full of people, some dancing to brassy tunes, others clinking heavy pints, drink sloshing over the worn floors. The air reeked of sweat and bodily fluids.

“How are we supposed to find anyone in this wreck?” Jin shouted above the din.

“Stay close,” Matteo shouted back.

Flick didn’t need to be told twice. She stayed on Jin’s heels, keeping her head low, ignoring toothy grins and women looking over her clothes as though she had no sense of style, dressing like a boy while they dressed like they’d never seen a river.

Goodness, Flick, that was rude.

But it was true. Jin turned back and reached for her hand, and Flick felt her cheeks warm. They had kissed and touched and shared heated glances, but there was something unspeakably remarkable about being sought out and remembered even in the midst of mayhem.

Matteo led them to the rooms in the back.

There was a line of them, and Flick did not have to wonder if they were occupied.

Breathless sighs, low moans, and fervent commands escaped the doors.

Jin’s hand tightened around hers before he let go altogether, deliberately looking away when she tried to catch his eye.

She held back a grin at his discomfort. The great Jin Casimir! Shy!

“I’m here for the Council, Andoni,” Jin said dryly, but Flick caught the rough abrasion of his words, the huskiness in the back of his throat. “Not a show. Wicked knives, I can’t believe we showered for this.”

Matteo ignored him, stopping before the center door, which was wider than the rest. More… official, Flick felt. He knocked twice, and when a gruff voice answered, he stepped inside, Flick and Jin on his heels.

A middle-aged man sat behind a desk that had seen better days, his window open to let in the sour air from the alleyways.

He had a dark beard that reminded Flick of Penn, and a collection of teacups on a worn shelf behind him.

The paint was peeling off the walls and the floor needed a polish, but Ward was dressed in fine scarlet livery of a Horned Guard minister that looked out of place.

“Andoni!” Ward called. “It’s been too long, my boy.”

“An artist never sleeps,” Matteo said with a lazy shrug. In Matteo’s case, that was very true.

“Sugarplums?” Ward asked, nudging the bowl on his desk. Neither Matteo nor Jin moved to take one, but Ward looked so hopeful that Flick thought it bad form to refuse.

“Does this establishment belong to you?” Jin asked, and Flick thought he could have toned his judgment down a tad.

“My pa’s, originally,” Ward said with a nod, and then regarded Jin with a tilt of his head. “Why? Are you interested in buying?”

Flick wondered, for a moment, if Matteo had pulled some cruel joke on them, but he wanted to meet the Council and find Arthie as much as they did, and Ward was wearing the right uniform. It was simply a strange sight.

“I thought you were a Horned Guard minister,” Jin said.

Ward leaned back, his amenable tone slowly slipping away. “And I thought we were allowed to work more than one job.”

“Forgive my friend here. He’s been wronged more than once,” Matteo said.

Ward studied Jin for a long, silent moment—as silent as the room allowed them to be, for the ruckus outside thrummed in the very air—and Flick worried Jin had gone too far and the minister would turn them away.

“White Roaring is a terrifying place,” Ward said finally. He set down his pen and folded a letter. “Now, care to tell me why you’re here?”

“Because of this.” Jin stepped closer to his desk and held out the heavy gold coin. The Council calling card.

Ward stilled. “I haven’t seen one of these in a long while.”

“Will you take us to them?” Matteo asked.

Ward lifted his brows, casting Flick and Matteo a glance. “And where did you get the coin? We don’t produce them anymore.”

Jin mulled over his reply. “From a kinsman who can’t make use of it himself.”

“Is that so? That’s a hard truth to believe, young sir.”

Matteo pursed his lips as though he knew what he could say but didn’t want to. “He’s a friend of mine, Ward,” Matteo said finally. “Can you not trust the friend of your sister’s son?”

Jin balked. Flick’s eyes widened of their own accord before she schooled her features. This man was Matteo Andoni’s uncle ? He looked nothing like the tall, aristocratic vampire.

“Sister by choice,” Ward corrected, rising to his feet. Ah. That made far more sense. “But you’re right. And coin etiquette demands I take you there, no questions asked.”

Matteo’s brows flattened.

The man had already asked an awful lot of questions.

“Where is there , exactly?” Flick asked.

Ward lifted a finger. “No questions from either side, miss.” Then he glanced at his pocket watch. “Bollocks. It’s half past seven bells. The Council won’t convene until dawn tomorrow, so I’m afraid we can’t go just yet. Luckily for you, I’ve got spare rooms.”

He looked so pleased to offer them lodging that Flick couldn’t not smile at him, but she couldn’t be blamed if it looked like a grimace.