Demon Marked

“You’ve killed my research source and taken an extra twenty-five percent from his spoils. You live a life of adventure.”
    “Yes, but—”
    “I’ll write them. You receive twenty-five percent of royalties.”
    The sudden need for a cigarillo almost overwhelmed her. A drink, a hit of opium. Anything to calm her jumping nerves. Was she going to agree to this?
    Yes. Of course she was. Even without royalties, she would have.
    But still, no need to be stupid about it.
    “Fifty percent of royalties,” Yasmeen countered.
    “Twenty-five. You send me reports of where you go, who you see, what you eat. I need to know how long it takes you to fly to each location. I want your impressions of your crew, your passengers, and everyone you meet.”
    Impossible. “I won’t share everything.”
    “I won’t name them. I only seek authenticity, not a reproduction of the truth.”
    “I won’t share everything,” Yasmeen repeated.
    For a moment, Zenobia looked as if she’d try to negotiate that, too. Then she shrugged. “Of course you can’t. But let us begin with your background. Thirteen years ago, you joined my father’s crew. After you killed him—well done, by the way—you sold Lady Corsair ’s services as a mercenary in the French-Liberé war, where you worked both sides, depending upon who paid the most. You earned the reputation of being willing to do anything for money. But what happened before that? Where were you before my father’s ship?”
    In a very pretty cage. But did she want to share that? Yasmeen shook her head.
    “As far as I’m concerned, my life started when I boarded Lady Corsair . Make up what you like about what came before.”
    “All right. A mysterious past will only make Lady Lynx more fascinating,” she mused. “I could deliver the background in bits, like crumbs.”
    “Whatever you like.” Yasmeen stood. “The other reports, I’ll send to you regularly.”
    Zenobia’s expression sharpened as she rose. “Where are you heading after you leave Fladstrand? Do you have a job now?”
    “No. We’ll spend the day traveling to Port Fallow. Mills is only here because another man talked about the sketch. I need to have a conversation with him.”
    Then she’d fly to England, and ask the Iron Duke to hold the sketch safe at his London fortress until she found a buyer. She couldn’t risk carrying it with her any longer. Lady Corsair had become a moving target.
    “And will you also have a conversation with Mills?”
    A frown had furrowed the other woman’s brow. Did she think Yasmeen would leave without taking care of Mills, or did some other matter concern her?
    “Yes,” Yasmeen said. “Why?”
    “Perhaps I should contact the town’s magistrate, instead.”
    And let word spread that Yasmeen had run to the authorities after Miracle Mills had tried to cheat her, rather than taking care of him on her own? Not a chance.
    “You can,” she told Zenobia. “But I won’t wait for you to arrive at the inn with him.”
    Indecision warred on the woman’s face.
    “Come with me,” Yasmeen offered. “Call it research. I think you’ll find that the magistrate will arrive sooner or later.”
    “To arrest you?”
    That startled a laugh from her. “For what?”
    “For whatever you do to Mills.”
    Ah. Zenobia assumed that Yasmeen would burst into the inn, guns firing. She wrote stories where characters did exactly that—but like most people, she balked when faced with the reality of that scenario.
    Yasmeen tended to avoid such scenes herself. “I only intend to talk with him, and make certain that he knows—that everyone knows—you don’t have the sketch, and that you’ll never have access to it.”
    The woman visibly relaxed. “I see. Thank you.”
    “It’s not personal. I simply want my twenty-five percent, and more stories.” When Zenobia smiled in response, she gestured to the door. “Shall we go?”
    She waited outside while the other woman retrieved her coat. The frigid air shivered through her. Lighting a cigarillo, she let the smoke warm her lungs and ease the tiny shakes.
    A few neighbors had ventured outside, all of them watching Yasmeen without looking directly at her, or tilting their heads back to gape at Lady Corsair . Zenobia waved to them and called a good morning when she finally emerged, and Yasmeen couldn’t decide whether surprise or relief added such volume to the Good morning! s they called to her in return. Feeling the cold down to her toes, she