Page 125 of Liar Witch

Even as we stroll the docks, heading for the Rusty Locket to find the Pirates’ contact, I don’t see anything that triggers a memory of this place. Although, if I was going to remember anything, I would think it would be the smell. The scents of fish, piss and alcohol overwhelm every other scent, and Opal burrows her face into my neck as if trying to hide from it.

Not that I’m trying too hard to remember it. I’m more interested in watching Klaus’s face as he takes it all in. He’s staring at some things like they’re completely alien to him; watching men and women interact like they’re speaking in code and he can’t quite figure it out.

“How many times have you been on land before?” I ask before I can help myself.

He blushes. “Does that include uninhabited islands?”

I gape at him. “You’ve never been in a city before?”

“Aside from the time when I dropped you off on a beach on the outskirts of Coveton? No.” He smiles as he watches a small gaggle of children run up to an unsuspecting man and start begging, only for their friends to rob him blind from behind.

“There are much better cities,” Rysen grumbles, eyeing the wasted creatures in the shadows. “Come on, we need to get this over with.”

“So if this Cirio guy was meant to meet us on the ship, why are we going into the city to find him?” Klaus asks, turning his attention back to the vampire as he loops an arm around my shoulders and presses a kiss to my forehead.

“We weren’t meeting Cirio, just his men,” Ry grumbles. “Cirio is a fellow Captain—and a good one—but he owns his own fleet, and commands them from his Cove like a king. He’s Val’s old friend, but we rarely get to deal with him directly. The pirates we have to associate with are a bunch of unreliable, drunken, bastards. They get paid well to pick up the dust from Faelys and deliver it to the ship in Meliad without wagging their tongues about it.”

“So you think they ran into some trouble?” I guess.

“Maybe. We’re earlier than normal, thanks to the Eagle’s sudden desire to push up the schedule, so they might not be expecting us. If we’re going to find them, they’ll be at the inn, drunk off their asses.”

Klaus cocks his head. “Why her sudden change of plan?”

“She’s not exactly forthcoming with information.” Rysen rolls his eyes. “Even if she was, we couldn’t tell you.”

I bite my lip. “While I was in the palace, I overheard some things. I’m not certain, but I think the princess might have had something to do with it. The storeroom where they were keeping the ingredients was scorched, and the way the people in the palace spoke… I’m almost certain she did something and was executed for it.”

Rysen sighs. “A last-minute attack of conscience, maybe. Who cares? The result is the same.”

He strides off ahead, and Klaus tucks me closer against him.

“If there are fissures in the Eagle’s family, we could use that information against her,” he mutters.

“The other Princess was forced to drink the elixir,” I say, grimacing at the memory. “It didn’t seem it was the first time it had happened either.”

“Perhaps she could be persuaded to go against her mother.”

Our conversation cuts off as Rysen reaches an unremarkable door. The green paint is peeling, and the wonky sign above it proclaims this grimy establishment the Rusty Locket.

He knocks once, then waits. Sure enough, the door slips open a crack, and a single, beady eye is visible for half a second before it’s pulled open wide without a word.

It’s like being pulled through a portal into another realm. The street front was dark, grey and unappealing, but the inside is not.

We enter a separate world. One where the rugged, dingy feel of the streets fades away into gilded opulence. The music is loud, the chatter louder, and the smell of alcohol and sex fills my nostrils as we step farther into this strange place.

“Deadwood’s man.”The whisper goes around, undercutting the merriment with a hiss of urgency.

So they recognise Ry. I wonder how often he comes here.

The revellers part as we cross the room, heading for the polished bar in the centre. The woman waiting there has her hair tied tightly away from her face, further emphasising the sharp lines of her cheekbones and the cruel, thin shape of her eyes. One arm is covered in wickedly dark flowers, though I can spot more than a few carefully disguised sigils amongst the ordinary tattoos. The other is scarred beyond recognition; the skin’s texture warped and silvery with marks of pain.

Her dress is black, and laced tight against her body, showing off bountiful curves that I’m more than a little jealous of. Around her neck is a single rusted old locket.

This must be the bar’s namesake.

She may be human, but every instinct in me warns that this is not a woman to be taken lightly.

“A witch, a vampire and a siren walk into a bar…” she begins, smirking. “Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke to me.”