Bishop Dark sat, boots propped against the wobbling leg of Sarai’s small table as the lamplight guttered, flickering over red velvet and cheap pewter. He’d never trusted warm, golden light; it had a way of exposing creases and scars, the kind that ran soul-deep. Sarai, on the other hand, bathed in illumination, shimmered—her smile as sharp as a blade sheathed in silk.
She poured them both a bitter red from a thin-necked bottle. “Drink, Bishop,” she breathed, her fingertips trailing the rim of his cup before she slid it his way. The tavern’s crowd swelled and receded, tides of laughter and sullen plotting. Her gaze never left him. “Payment. The coin is always the easy part.”
Dark lifted the cup, the wine bitter on his tongue, and let it burn through the knot in his gut. “You said The Weaver’s name. Give me more.”
“In time,” Sarai purred, her lips brushing his ear as she leaned close. “Tonight, we trade more than names. Weaver is a phantom. But phantoms need doors.”
On the far wall, a trio of masked figures slipped quietly from the shadows, cloaks heavy enough to disguise intent. Sarai’s hand drifted across the table, her pinky finger hooking his. “You don’t want to cause a scene—not here. They’re watching. The Weaver’s eyes in the city.”
Dark’s jaw tightened. “Who?”
“Don’t look,” she said, voice like velvet and smoke. “Listen. The black-masked one is called Hasp. Likes knives, hates sunlight. The thin one’s a runner, delivers Weaver’s messages. The third… never seen them before.”
So. The Weaver’s agents, bold enough to show themselves in Sarai’s haunt. His knuckles whitened around the cup. Sarai’s touch wandered further, her thumb tracing the back of his hand in a rhythm that was both a comfort and a warning. She’d always used seduction as currency and shield alike.
Sarai’s eyes flicked to his. “If you want the ritual’s location, you need to play along. At least until they lose interest. Smile. Laugh. Pretend I’m telling you a dirty joke. Then follow my lead.”
Her mouth curved, her laughter warm and throaty. She pressed her lips to his cheek, lingering a half-second too long—a kiss meant for audience, not affection. But behind her whisper-soft hair, the words were urgent: “We leave through the kitchen. Now. Or we die at this table.”
Dark’s heart thudded, hands itching for his blade. The air thickened, the tavern shrinking to a tunnel vision blur—Sarai’s breath, the masked trio’s silent watching, the heat of the wine, and the promise of blood in the dark.
He rose in concert as Sarai stood, her hand still entwined with his. The masked trio moved, closing in with the hungry precision of predators. The kitchen door swung, inviting and shadowed, just beyond a heavyset cook who scowled at all comers. Every eye in the room suddenly felt pointed at his back.
One step. One move. The game changes.
He squeezed Sarai’s hand. The distance to the kitchen stretched, each moment loaded with peril and a single, burning question: Who gets to walk out alive?