The black market operates on its own code, its own rules. And rule number one seems to beprotect their own.
My frustration builds with every dead end, every lie, every evasive answer. She's been here. I can feel it in my bones, in the marrow of my being. The mate bond may be subtle without a mark, but it exists.
And it guides me still.
I find myself in a quieter section of the market, where the stalls give way to more permanent structures—small shops carved directly into the cavern walls. One of them catches my eye. A storefront displaying an array of wares, from small statues to clothing to elaborate constructions of metal and leather.
I enter the shop, ducking beneath hanging displays. An elderly woman sits in the back, her knobby fingers mending a relic of a sword with surprising dexterity. She doesn't look up as I approach.
"Excuse me, madame. I'm looking for information," I say.
"You and every other asshole," she replies in a weathered voice. Seems she isn't an open book, either.
"I'm looking for someone," I clarify. "An omega in her twenties with silver hair. Violet eyes."
The old woman finally looks up, her gaze sharp despite the milky film. She studies me intensely, tilting her head back to peer through her spectacles down her nose at me even though I'm standing over her.
"You're a soldier," she says. Not a question, but a statement.
I've been careful to adopt a more casual stance, to blend in. My uniform is gone, replaced by nondescript clothing. "What makes you say that?" I ask, frowning.
Her laugh is more like a bark. "The way you stand. The way you walk. Like there's a stick up your ass." She returns to her work. "Soldiers all walk the same. You can dress like a commoner all you want, young man, but you can't hide fromthisold lady."
I don't know what to say to that. Especially the part about the stick.
"I'm looking for an omega," I repeat, refusing to be distracted. "She may have been traveling with an alpha. Tall, possibly wearing a metal mask." I hesitate, then add, "Or she might have been alone."
The old woman's hands still for just a fraction of a second. It's so subtle, I would have missed it if I hadn't been watching closely. She knows something.
"Haven't seen anyone like that," she says, her tone dismissive.
I reach for my coin purse. "I can make it worth your while."
Her head snaps up, her good eye blazing with unexpected ferocity. "Keep your coin," she spits. "Shop's closed. Get out."
"Please," I say, the word feeling strange on my tongue. "I need to find her. She's in danger."
"I said get out." The old woman rises, pointing a painted finger toward the door. "Before I call someone tothrowyou out."
I hold her gaze for a long moment, weighing my options. I could press harder, but something tells me it would only make her more resistant. And I can't afford to make a scene. Not yet.
"Very well," I murmur, turning to leave.
As I exit the shop, I'm certain of one thing. Cosima has been here. The old woman's reaction was too strong, too immediate. She's protecting something, or someone.
But why? What connection could an elderly shopkeeper have to my mate?
"Gifts for your lover!" a voice calls out as I pass another stall. "A handsome man like you must have someone special!"
I pause, turning toward the voice. A vendor with a smile too wide to be trustworthy gestures at his wares, an assortment of trinkets and jewelry spread across a tattered blanket.
"Something beautiful for the beautiful woman in your life?" he continues, holding up a pendant that catches the light. "Silver for silver hair, perhaps?"
I stiffen. There's no way that's a coincidence. Which means word that I've been asking around about Cosima has traveled quickly through this gutter. The man's smile doesn't falter, but there's a darkness behind his eyes that makes me wary.
"I'm not interested," I say, starting to turn away.
"Something else, then?" he persists. "I've got scarves, knives, and whores across the way, if you're tired of looking."
