Live to Venture (#0)

Epilogue

Novari threw up a foam ball and caught it, lounging in Vallin's chair, the one he refused to ever let her sit in. What he didn't know wouldn't kill him.

The sun poured in through that beautiful bay window of the captain's quarters, illuminating the afternoon. While Novari could see everything happening on the deck, those below wouldn't be able to see through the glare.

She caught the foam ball again and leaned forward. The blonde was pretty, maybe, if you were into the whole sunny thing, which Novari was not. But the man she was beside, with the bright eyes, that was far more her thing. A little tortured, a little broken, and if you pushed hard enough, a lot of violence.

Throwing her feet from the perched position on Vallin's desk, Novari walked to the door. She opened it carefully, silently, and moved forward to lean on the railing. The sun was hot on her dark hair, but she was sure the shimmering looked fantastic.

Vallin was putting on some kind of performance, but Novari was watching his victim. He looked like the kind of person that would do bad things for good reason. Someone walking a tightrope of morals. One she could blow either way or keep steady. This was a smart man, perhaps even a brilliant man, if she gave him a nudge. The way he scanned the deck, the way he looked at the crew, rating their skills in his mind. He searched the deck for a moment longer than he should've—he was looking for someone who was missing. He was looking for her.

Novari analyzed him. Down his arms, over his shoulders. This man was trained. By whom? She squinted as she saw him lift a hand to his chest, where she could just see the outline of a knife. He wasn't going to use it, but he tentatively held it there. Who conceals knives under their chest? Most men don't, that's for sure. But Novari does, because men never notice a knife hidden in the place they're looking at for a different reason.

Funny coincidence, Novari thinks. She trained this man.

But he's counting, placing the crew. He's organizing his plan in his head. This man is not anywhere he doesn't want to be; he's exactly where he should be. And look at that, the chain of Orphano. Funny, funny coincidence. This is her pitiful assassin.

Novari almost sighs with disappointment. This could've been such a fun game to play. She could taste the sharp replies, the witty conversation. She could feel the secrets, the ploys. She could imagine the excitement, the unknown.

So maybe she'd still play this game. She wouldn't go too far, of course. She wouldn't risk what she already had, she wouldn't go so far as to cheat or lose her own hand, but maybe she could play with something fun again. Something new.

Still, if there was one thing that Novari knew about herself, it was that her gut was not ever wrong and she, in general, was usually not wrong by extension. And in her gut, in her soul, she knew there was something dangerous about this game. Something that might even be deadly. Perhaps she'd even met her match. Not today, but someday soon, when she gave this person the last of the tools he lacked. And that—that idea of the unknown, that realization that she did not exactly know where this might go, that she might soon discover a whole new game, was intoxicating.

She could forget about him. Throw him over the rail right now. It was that easy. But truth be told, Novari didn't quite care for easy or planned. And something about this situation unfolding in front of her spelled out adventure.

It was due time for a little fun. For a little uncertainty.