Renna’s ears flattened completely. “West passage. Faster exit.”
I moved before she finished. The west passage branched off the junction, narrower but less trafficked. Flinx dug his claws harder into my shoulder.
Flinx warned.
“Can you identify him?”
I reached the first turn and stopped. Running confirmed guilt. Standing my ground invited questions. The middle option involved pretending I had legitimate business and hoping he’d believe it.
Footsteps sounded behind me. Measured. Unhurried. Someone who knew exactly where I was and wasn’t worried about catching up.
Brevan Korven rounded the corner.
He’d changed since the museum. Less formal wear, more practical. Dark jacket, fitted but functional. No visible weapons, which meant nothing. The gold tracery on his cheek caught the overhead lights.
He smiled. “Curator. We really need to stop meeting in places that might explode.”
“This tunnel’s been stable for years.” I stayed put, letting him close the distance. “What are you doing down here?”
“Looking for you.” He stopped three feet away. “I had questions about the villa’s collection. Thought I’d ask the expert.”
“The villa has a communication system.”
“I tried. Your comm was turned off.”
True. Always off in the tunnels. Tarsus monitored every call, every message. Down here, I had limited time before he started asking questions.
“There must have been a communications failure. I was conducting inventory,” I said.
“In the maintenance tunnels.”
“Some artifacts require environmental monitoring. Climate control systems run through here. I was checking humidity levels.” The lie came easily. Six years of practice. “Did you need something specific, Mr. Korven?”
“Information.” He glanced past me, down the passage. “And possibly a drink. Somewhere we can talk that isn’t...” He gestured to the pipes overhead. “This.”
“The villa has lounges.”
“Where Senator Tarsus monitors every word.” He met my eyes. “I’d prefer somewhere more private.”
Flinx sent.
If he knew, he’d already talked to someone. If he was guessing, refusing would confirm something worth hiding. Either way, saying no looked worse.
“Follow me,” I said.
The west passage connected to smaller tunnels, most abandoned when newer construction replaced the original layout. The speakeasy occupied one of those dead spaces. A converted storage room where staff had installed salvaged furniture, a makeshift bar, and enough sound dampening to keep management from noticing.
I stopped at the entrance. Reinforced door, security panel repurposed from a cargo bay. This week’s password was “sunshine.” Someone’s idea of irony, fifty feet underground.
I keyed it in and pulled the door open.
The speakeasy was quieter than usual. Three Nazoks occupied a corner table, mid-game. A Poraki bartender worked behind the counter, cleaning glasses. Two Merrith sat in back, speaking their native language. Everyone looked up when I entered.
Then they saw Brevan.
The Nazoks froze mid-roll. The Poraki’s skin went pale. The Merrith stopped talking.
