“Yes, you’re right. He’s my friend and he wants me to be safe. But he won’t interfere now unless you hurt me.”
Speaking of that, I lifted my hand to the spot under my chin. It was still wet and sensitive but healing fast. Adrenaline kept me from feeling anything. I looked down at the spots of blood on my shirt. That was probably going to get me some unwanted attention during the walk back to the hotel.
“I might need to borrow a shirt,” I said, chancing a small smile. “Should we talk here, or do you want to go somewhere else?”
Her breathing had finally slowed, but she still watched me warily.
“You may come inside, but not him.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “Thank you.”
She waved me forward with the knife to walk in front of her. When I got around the corner, Kope was nowhere to be seen.
“Go in,” she told me. The door was unlocked, so I pushed it open. Inside she quickly closed the door and locked it behind us before peering out a side window and motioning me into a parlor. I took in the array of color and design. Everything from the multicolored Persian rug and gold drapes to the handcrafted woodwork of the furniture. Taking a seat in an ornate chair, I ran my fingers over the thick maroon and yellow tasseled cushion, then the mosaic tabletop next to me. I looked up to see Zania watching me from across the room, knife still in hand. For the first time I noticed the dark band of addiction, running under her black badge, as if it would squeeze the life from her.
“Will you sit with me?” I asked.
Without answering, she moved gracefully to a wooden case and lifted the lid, revealing a beverage bar. She poured a shot of something dark-amber colored and drank it, the knife coming dangerously close to her eye. She poured a second glass and looked at me. My insides were tight enough to snap.
“Do you want one?” she asked.
Yes. I paused two beats. “N-no, thank you.”
“No?”
Just one! I didn’t know what to do. I was already jittery, but I really wanted that drink. As if sensing my internal struggle, she smiled as she sipped the second shot.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Maybe—”
Zania straightened up and made a faraway face. “He whistled. Why did he whistle? Is he signaling someone?”
“Who? Kope?” Oh . . . I slouched a little. I was officially the only Neph I knew who didn’t regularly use their extended hearing to listen out. “No, he’s whistling to me. To tell me not to drink.”
My insides unraveled the slightest bit. Kope wouldn’t whistle for no reason. If he was telling me not to drink, then it was a good idea for me to listen. I suppose two girls with a weakness for drink and a bottle of liquor wasn’t the safest combination. I had a job to do and a limited amount of time to do it.
Zania’s stricken face revealed that she thought otherwise. “He forbids you to drink? And you obey? Why?”
“No, it’s not like that.” I swallowed hard. “He doesn’t forbid me or anything—he’s just looking out for me. He knows . . . how carried away I get if I’m not careful.”
She huffed and poured another, then sat in a chair across the room from me, placing the knife on her lap. We watched each other across the space.
“I remember you,” she said. “And the angels. I believed the Dukes planned to kill me that night.”
“I thought the summit was about me, too,” I admitted. I wondered if every Neph feared they were the cause of that summit, only to feel relieved when Gerlinda was called forward.
“You should not have spoken out that night,” she said.
So I’d been told. I breathed a small sigh.
“May I ask a personal question . . . about your sin and how it manifests itself?” I asked. “I mean . . . do you feel hate for people in general?”
She raised an eyebrow, and I squirmed a little on my cushion.
“I detest men.” Her eyes widened as she spoke freely of her sin. She rolled the knife in her palm, jolting me with a memory of how Kaidan used to do the same thing. “Men are vain, selfish fools. Every one. I enjoy when they fight and hurt each other. I wish they would kill one another completely and be done with it.” Zania wiped her mouth and watched for my reaction. I swallowed hard and cleared my throat.
“Do you know of my father, Belial?”
“I have not met him. But I know his sin.” She held up her drink and sipped it. “How do you so easily deny the drink I offer?”
“It’s not easy.” No, in fact, before Kope’s whistle I’d been trying to talk my good conscience into it by telling myself it would be inhospitable not to have one. The key word there was one. And moderation really wasn’t my thing. “It’s harder for me with drugs,” I admitted. “The thing is, my father doesn’t force me to work for real, so I mostly pretend. That makes it easier because I don’t have to fight the addiction.”
Her arm froze midair as she read my face with incredulous disbelief.