Mark of the Harbinger (Book 1)

22 - A Trick and a Fight Club

When the Fae took his seat in Telavar's car, I expected obnoxious innuendos and subtle, maligning attempts to coerce more requests from me. I prepared myself for that behavior—and yet, when Xerex settled, his mien changed from that of a dangerous flirt to a professional businessman. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, slid his sunglasses onto his face, and waited for me to drive. Dressed in a black button-down with an off-white sports coat, he almost looked professional. 

I think I know better than anyone that looks can be deceiving, I mused as I threw the car into gear and began to navigate through the evening traffic. I glanced at Xerex occasionally as he took out his phone and began to text, his thumbs moving faster than I could follow. I grew more curious about the Fae, wondering what exactly Xerex Darhan did when he wasn't peddling knick-knacks or skulking about RNU.

If he was willing to take a presumably human woman into a blood pit with little argument against it, I wasn't sure I wanted to know what kind of business Xerex dealt in when he decided to be a professional.

It took some time to navigate the crowded streets and to escape into the east bank once more. By then, it was fully dark and I knew we'd find vampires inside the seedy lounge, much to my disappointment. I only hoped they wouldn't be fighting, and if they were, that I could avoid seeing it. I'd witnessed more violence than most in my life, but that didn't mean I could tolerate it when surrounded by vicious men and women trying to kill one another for money.

My mouth went dry and I wiped cold sweat from my brow.

When we approached Eighth and Primavera, Xerex directed me away from Bob's Bowl-a-Rama in favor of an unlit, grubby lot on Eighth about a building down from our destination. The entire block was populated with black, uninhabited warehouses abandoned in the Riots and never touched again. Some were reduced to rubble, others were refuge to the homeless—the homeless who dared live in Roccia Nera, anyway. Living on the streets was dangerous with creatures like vampires—or Maligaphrius—out on the prowl. 

"This isn't my car," I told Xerex with a look out the window at the dubious lot he'd chosen. There were a few other vehicles about, mostly rusted junkers and tireless heaps eroding into the faded asphalt. No security lamps were installed in the area. "I can't have something happen to it." 

"It'll be watched," Xerex said without further explanation as he exited the car. I followed, taking my purse, unwilling to leave it behind, and Xerex came around the sedan to offer me his arm.

I stared at it, then at him, and Xerex's expression never changed, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. I wanted to tell him he looked like an idiot wearing those at night—but I wisely kept my mouth shut. 

"You need to touch me for the glamour to extend to you, yeah?" he explained with a gesture toward his upheld arm. "As you pointed out earlier, they don't allow humans inside."

"Oh." Unsure, I threaded my arm around his and held on when Xerex set off at a brisk pace along the cracked sidewalk. 

The magic ensconcing us changed, a sheet of it surrounding me in an uncomfortable veil of spiraling wind as the Darkling wove his spell. Glamours worked by altering others' perceptions of an item or a person, not by physically changing the target itself. In a way, it was as if Xerex was setting a mirror in front of me, and the image it reflected was whatever he wanted others to see. Because the magic wasn't acting upon my body, my innate talent left it alone. Otherwise, I would have had some very difficult questions to answer for Xerex.

The bar and its entrance came into sight, brought into relief by a single lamp throwing light across the black door and the man leaning at its side, smoking.