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“A local. Jade Mercer. Twenty-two. Blond, green eyes. He has a twin brother called Onyx. They came back from Tempest a few days ago.”
“Sorry.” He blinks. “Mercer?”
I nod. “He works the mines.”
“Right.” The clerk thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. There are thousands of miners in the district.”
Seren leans against the counter beside him. “So where would we find one?”
The clerk looks up at him and promptly loses whatever he was about to say. Seren’s mouth curves because the asshole knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Well?” Seren asks.
“I...” The clerk fumbles one of the room slates and catches it against the counter, cheeks turning red. “I don’t really know anyone from the mines, sir.”
Ryven props an elbow on the counter, grinning. “Easy, sweetheart. He’s only asking for directions.”
The poor man goes crimson. “But if anyone knows who’s come back from Tempest, the Lucky Strike Casino will.”
“A casino?”
He nods quickly. “People talk there. Miners. Foremen. Union men.” His voice drops another notch. “And Mr. Vasco.”
“Mr. Vasco?”
“He owns the mines.” The clerk swallows. “Or near enough that nobody bothers arguing the difference. Most of the neighborhoods around here belong to him, one way or another. If someone’s working, owes money, lost a job, or found a job...” He gives a small shrug. “Mr. Vasco usually knows.”
Ryven tilts his head. “Now that’s convenient.”
“Just...” The clerk hesitates. “Be careful. Information always has a price in the Lucky Strike. Sometimes it’s money. Sometimes it isn’t.”
Seren reaches across the counter, turns the clerk’s hand palm up, then folds a credit chip into it. “Thank you.”
The clerk’s fingers automatically close around the chip. They don’t let go of Seren’s hand quite as quickly as they should.
Ryven snatches up his bag with a barking laugh and heads for the lifts.
By the time we leave the hotel, we’ve changed into something that won’t cook us alive.
Ryven wears a charcoal shirt open at the throat, paired with pale linen trousers, as if Calder’s heat is somebody else’s problem. Seren is still in black, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the lightweight fabric doing nothing to hide his shoulders. I settle for a dark shirt with the sleeves pushed up. It hides the bandages well enough without making me sweat through them.
“You know,” Ryven says as the hotel doors close behind us, “I don’t think that poor receptionist will get any sleep tonight.”
Seren glances at him. “I thanked him, is all.”
“You practically invited him upstairs.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Seren. You held his hand, smiled at him, and gave him enough money to feed a family for a month.”
Seren frowns. “How the fuck do you know how much I gave him?”
Ryven gives him a look. “I know you, cuz.”
“That was polite.”
“No.” Ryven grins. “That was foreplay.”
