Vincent

12. A Night On The River

Layla struggled against the burly arms around her as the foul-smelling assailant dragged her into an alley. He had a hand over her mouth, which Layla thought about biting, but she did not wish to escalate just yet. This man did not want her dead; if he did, he could have done it fifteen times over by now.

The man shoved her up against a slimy brick wall, one hand braced beside her head and the other poised to drive the tip of a dagger into her belly. Layla cocked her jaw to one side, her face a bland mask of irritation, while her heart beat so fast that it sent pain radiating through her chest.

"What do you want?" she said, speaking so low that the tremor in her voice sounded more like a growl.

"We've had our eye on you, Minou," the man murmured.

"You and every other man in Paris," she said. "What of it? Out with it, man, I haven't got all night."

"My, you are feisty for having a blade pointed at your bowels," said the man.

"And you smell like rancid cabbage— ah!" Layla winced and squeezed her eyes shut as he drew the knife back, threatening.

"Lemur," the man snarled.

"Yes, it's disagreeably slimy, don't you think?"

"The man, you stupid bitch, not the wall!"

Layla frowned up at the man, calculating. He had beady black eyes that glittered in the meager lamplight trickling in from the street, his heavy jaw covered in shadows of stubble, doubtless too sloppy to shave very often. The odor hung about him in a miasma. Layla did not know who he was, for surely she would have remembered that smell. But this man should not have known about Lemur. Very few knew that name.

"I don't know anyone named Lemur," said Layla.

"Yes you do," the man countered.

"And if I did, what would you want with me? Why not just go after him? You are not very efficient, whoever you are." Layla cocked her head to one side. "If this is about opium, why don't you go rob a chemist or something?"

"It's not about opium!" the man cried, making Layla flinch at the wave of fishy stink coming off his breath. "We want Lemur."

"So go get him." Feeling bolder, Layla crossed her arms, effectively blocking the man's access to her chest. "What do you need me for?"

"We do not want him dead," the man said. "We need you to make him come... peacefully."
Layla's brows shot up. "And you think I am the person to do it? You are mistaken if you think I have any influence—"

"We have it on good authority that he trusts you," the smelly man interrupted. "We have reason to believe he'd listen if you suggested something. We have reason to believe he might let you in on a scheme with the proper... motivation."

"Scheme." Layla blinked pointedly. "You know who I am, do you not?"

"You're one of the best whores in Paris for the best price," the man laughed. "You think you're shrewd, little kitten, but everyone knows you're an opium smuggler, too."

"Right. I am a foot soldier in a vast army. I know nothing, and I certainly do not have the man's ear."

"But you do," said the man with an unpleasant grin full of mossy teeth. "You have more power over him than you know."

"Who the hell are you?" Layla demanded, trying to scoot sideways and get away from him. He slapped his palm against the wall, blocking her way with his meaty arm. She curled her lip, then looked back up at him. "I said, who the hell are you?"