“Um.” I lick my lips and take a step forward. The soles of my loafers peel away from the layer of dried liquid coating the buckling floorboards. “I’m looking for the Courier. I was informed he might be here?”
The creature—beast, immortal, whatever he is—peers into a far corner. “He’s here.” He jerks his head at a man with short white hair, seated with his back to me. “He expecting you?”
“Not exactly.”
The serpent-eyed barkeep studies me for a time. Is that a tattoo peeking from his shirt collar? “Takes bravery to venture into these parts,” he says. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Y-yes.” Absolutely not.
He grunts, sets aside the clean glass. One of the patrons seated at the bar signals him, and the barkeep pours whiskey into a smudged tumbler, sliding it down the counter into the man’s awaiting hand.
As I begin weaving toward the Courier, the barkeep calls, “Wait. Take this with you.” I turn. He offers me a glass filled with ale. “A bribe,” he explains.
“I don’t have coin.”
“It’s on the house.”
“But—”
“I’m not in the mood to scrub blood off the floors tonight,” he clarifies. “Give it to the Courier. You’ll be glad you did.” Then he returns to his drying.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Head held high, I cross the room, skirting lopsided tables and deities playing darts, more than one patron passed out across a bench or chair. The snow-haired god plays cards with three others covered in tattoos. I curl my arms against my chest, feeling distinctly out of place in my dress and loafers. “Excuse m-me.”
It is chilling how immediately conversation dies. Not just this table, but the whole of the room falls beneath the hush.
The snow-haired deity turns in his seat, and my throat clamps down on a budding scream. I’ve never seen such eyes: pools of liquid silver lapping at half-sunken eyelids.
He wears a scarf that is every color and no color at all—green, yet when I peer closer, it seems to shift hue: blue, indigo, deep orange. An intricately carved pipe rests in a shallow dish to his left, smoky remnants uncurling from the burned leaves within. His companions watch me unnervingly.
“Are you the Courier?” I ask.
Those silver eyes slide down to the glass of ale I hold. Recalling the barkeep’s warning, I offer him the drink.
He lifts an equally white eyebrow, but accepts the offering and takes a sip. “Eurus’ mortal.” His blurred voice pours past a thin, unsmiling mouth. “I have heard of you.”
I swallow as the back of my neck tingles beneath the scrutiny of those in the tavern. “Good things, I hope.”
“That depends on your definition of good.”
That is fair, I suppose. Though I elect not to ponder the matter too deeply. “I apologize for disturbing you, but I was advised you were the person I must speak to if I wanted to send a message to the mortal realms.”
“Indeed.” This intrigues him.Iintrigue him. “And you wish to send a message?”
In answer, I pass over the letter, secured by a wax seal.
The Courier lifts the parchment to his nose and inhales, his eyes flickering like moonlit pools. “Salt, yeast, aged cheese, wine. Marles, but… east Marles.” He takes another sniff. “Brine. Hmm. St. Laurent?”
Slowly, I nod, my apprehension too great to be impressed.
He taps the folded parchment thoughtfully against his palm. “I can deliver this for you. But it comes at a price.”
“I haven’t any coin,” I whisper. If he refuses to deliver, how am I supposed to get in contact with Lady Clarisse?
“Oh, it’s not coin I want.” He picks at his nails. Both his wrists are tattooed with snakes. “Perhaps we can come to some arrangement. I will need to think on it. Mortals have their uses, after all.”
I do not like the sound of that. But what choice do I have, really? It is the estate, or nothing. “The message is urgent,” I press. “It can’t wait.” Perhaps I should have accepted Demi’s request to accompany me. I doubt the Courier would demand payment fromher.
