“Yes,” I say.
“And this invitation is a thread,” he says.
“Exactly,” I whisper.
Lonari’s gaze sharpens like a blade being honed. “Then we pull the thread. Carefully.”
My pulse kicks. Fear and adrenaline and something like grim satisfaction mix in my veins.
I look back at the evidence vault hovering above my table—the dead-drop protocol waiting patiently like a loaded gun.
I send one more backup shard into the cloud mirror.
Then I lock my compad.
And I say, quietly, to the room, to the universe, to whoever thinks I’m easy to trade:
“Try.”
CHAPTER 24
LONARI
Gur’s night tastes like metal and burnt sugar.
It seeps into your mouth when you breathe too deep, rides the back of your throat like a bad decision. The Defrocked Nun glitters behind me—music thumping soft through the walls, lights pretending this planet isn’t built on knives. Outside, the air is cooler, industrial, laced with exhaust from dock traffic and the faint tang of ozone from shield grids.
Jordan’s invitation sits in my mind like a splinter.
A Coalition official requests a private meeting to offer protection.
Protection. On Gur. That’s like a shark offering you a life vest.
I don’t tell Jordan to sleep. I don’t tell her to relax. She’d spit in my face if I tried—and she’d be right. Instead I tell her, “Don’t move without eyes on you,” and she gives me that look that saysI’m not a child,and I give her my own look that saysNo, you’re a matchstick in a room full of fuel.
Then I leave.
Not because I want distance.
Because I want answers.
Because if someone’s dangling “protection” in front of her, they’re trying to pull her out of my orbit. And that means they’ve noticed she’s become leverage.
Which means the Nine is paying attention.
I take a back route through the service corridors, away from the casino cameras, away from the polished floors. This is the Nun’s spine—raw concrete, pipes sweating in the warm air, the smell of detergent fighting a losing war with old blood. Two of my quiets fall in behind me without a word. They move like shadows that learned discipline.
“Who’s the liaison?” I ask.
One of them, Sable—thin Fratvoyan with eyes like wet stones—hands me a data-slate. “Name on the header is Councilor Veyl Tarsen. Coalition protectorate office. Claims neutral jurisdiction.”
“Claims,” I repeat, amused without humor.
The other, Rook, says, “He requested an off-site suite. Says he won’t step on Kaijen property.”
“Because he’srespectful,” I mutter.
Sable doesn’t smile. “Because he’s not stupid.”
