Cruinia’s hot, dusty, and arid beaches greeted Tazaro and Sheeva as they stepped off the gangway onto the loading docks. Poker-face on, Sheeva turned to give a brief, final smile-and-wave at the crew and captain of the Hafez as they cheered them goodbye. She hoped her stoic face did not betray her in a show of surprise when Captain Burke announced that they were welcome to come back and sail with them anytime, as long as they “kept things interesting.”

  Bartholomew had used an unoccupied room to render a portal that he disappeared through, with an initial promise that he wouldn’t attempt to take Zakaraia on by himself and the added promise to check in every couple of days to prove he was still alive and well.

  As they wandered down the docks, Sheeva immediately noted the wobbliness of her knees as her feet struggled to adapt to solid, stable ground. Her wobbliness worsened as she took a few steps towards the main road running through Rascal’s Cove, her body suddenly stricken with goosebumps as she looked around. It was eerie to see the drab, broken-down fishery and adjoining vendors that her younger self had crept around to stay hidden from city guards as a full-fledged adult.

  Despite the heat, Sheeva tightened her cloak around her frame and pressed on past the vendors selling scrawny, almost meatless fish. She was no more interested in the slimy things than loitering around, eager to get the last part of their journey underway.

  At Tazaro’s reminder that they should make sure they purchase what they needed before setting out, Sheeva dropped her head in reluctance. Pragmatic as she usually was, it seemed her wits had left her, considering she’d briskly passed up any and all vendors crying out to passersby.

  With an encouraging hand in hers, Tazaro pulled her toward the first herb stand to be found. As she stared at the selection, Sheeva couldn’t help the scornful curl of her lip as she tsked at the shriveled Feriaroot and sun-bleached Feverfew. Even the family of succulents were in poor health, limp and sagging from extreme dehydration over the lips of their orange terracotta pots.

  She searched for a price board with a terse frown, then frowned more at the overpriced herbs listed on the sign as it waved in a soft, warm wind. The Feriaroot, normally only a couple of Inue per plentiful bunch on the mainland, was priced at nearly three times the rate for bunches nearly half the size.

  The old lady at the stand with dusty robes and a sash around her head to ward off Cruinia’s midday desert heat offered her a smile, and if it hadn’t been for the sheen of desperate tears, Sheeva would have not thought twice. Either the elderly woman was indeed going through tough times or was one hell of an actress as thin, wrinkled lips quivered amid a dusty face and clouded ruby eyes blinked in desperate hope. The woman’s voice even croaked like a frog’s as she implored Sheeva to let her know if she was looking for anything in particular.

  In a moment of pessimism as she realized it wouldn’t matter how much Feriaroot they had on hand if Zakaraia decided to off them both, Sheeva reached into the clutch tucked away in the hidden pocket on the cloak. She retrieved two golden, shiny Inue, roughly worth forty copper Inue, and placed them in the woman’s outstretched palm. Rough fingertips brushed against the woman’s coarse and noticeably thin palm, and Sheeva gave an assuring nod as the woman stared at the amount in disbelief.

  “I will take what you have here. All of it. That should be enough, and then some, yes?” Sheeva asked.

  While the gleeful woman was busy wrapping the assortment in brown paper packaging, Tazaro leaned into Sheeva’s ear, causing her to jump, startled.

  “Please tell me that’s an act of charity. I didn’t eat all the ginger.” He murmured teasingly, eliciting a snort and complimentary eye-roll from Sheeva.

  “Feh!” Sheeva tutted, giving the woman a curt farewell nod as she slung her bag over her shoulder to stuff the bunches of herbs into a side pocket. Still, her husband's jab caused her to chuckle and shake her head to dismiss the curl of a smile.

  She shrugged the bag into a comfortable position, then stepped away from the vendor and towards the middle of the entrance plaza to Rascal’s Cove.

  “Thank you. I needed that.” She mumbled, drawing in a shaky breath and glancing around at the growing, ragged plaza.

  “Yeah. I could tell.” Tazaro replied, more concerned with his wife’s riled state than the sweltering heat that left him already disgustingly sticky.

  Arms crossed for comfort, Sheeva paused at the foot of a statue as she tried to recall if it had been present the last time she was there.

  “I have some idea of what we’ll run into in Torde. Sadly, this port is probably the best and only place for sufficient supplies.” She grunted, directing a disapproving look towards a nearby statue.

  Tazaro took a deep breath and sighed, then cast a furtive smile over his shoulder when some of the Hafez’s crew members waved at them as they disappeared into a bar.

  “So, where to?” He began, trying to gain his bearings. With the sun high in the sky and beginning to set toward the east, Tazaro made a mental note of the fact for later.

  “I…” She trailed off, still stuck in discomfort and with a fierce frown that ached. “I’m not sure. Bartholomew and I were running for our lives the last time I was in this town.” She admitted.

  Tazaro’s eyebrows raised at the new information, and he managed to close his mouth, which had previously dropped open from shock, before turning to her. Silence held him as he contemplated what to say to her, wide-eyed and lost in thought.

  Wondering first if she would accept it, he offered a warm hand to take hers and give it a gentle squeeze. It came to life in his hand as she blinked and looked at it, then at him. He smiled, relieved to bring her out of heavy thoughts.

  “This may be crazy, but why don’t we paint the town red?” He asked.

  “Paint the town…red?” She murmured, squinting at the statue to the side as she contemplated its meaning. It wasn’t something she had heard before, but it wove a knot of dread in her throat.

  Sheeva’s eyes widened, and her mouth popped open in surprise as she turned back to stare at him, dumbfounded. Considering the depravity of his suggestion, he seemed disturbingly calm and cheerful while awaiting an answer, and it sunk the brick of worry deep into her gut.

  Sheeva stammered as she looked around and wondered if others had heard his insane suggestion. It seemed no one had, considering the nearest person had to be about twenty feet away as they perused a vegetable stand.

  The unsettling image of blood-red doorsteps and the phantom of panicked outcries that rang in her ears made her shudder, and she pursed her lips together as disgusting realization began to choke her. Had Tazaro’s brush with killing a man in the desperate act of their hellish escape ignited a psychopathic desire for premeditated bloodshed?

  She felt the bone-stilling chill sweep over her and rested a wary hand on Abraxas, praying she wouldn’t need to use him. Disappointed and saddened, she took a deep breath and looked him over again, then peered into his eyes for the same wild and sadistic glint she’d seen in Llyud in their sparse meetings.

  She didn’t seem to see any such glint, but perhaps she wouldn’t be able to detect it, considering she loved him so deeply.

  “Or, uh, maybe not?” He chuckled, discouraged as his now half-smile fell into a frown.

  She shook her head at herself. He was still far too relaxed, and she had to be simply overthinking things. Perhaps it was an idiom she didn’t know.

  Sheeva prepared herself with a deep, shaky breath.

  “Tazaro?” She began, hoping he didn’t pick up on her tremble. “What, uh, do you mean by that?” She asked, eyeing him.

  As he gave her a baffled look and curious smile, she recognized the blink of an “aha” moment, setting a weak flame to the fodder of worry in her guts.

  “Paint the town red. It means to,” Tazaro paused to chuckle and hid his sheepish smile behind the sleeve of his jacket. “To go out and have fun. Celebrate. Have a good time!”

  The wave of relief almost caused Sheeva to collapse. Her eyes fluttered closed as the breath she held onto flew out from her chest from an embarrassed, exasperated, “Oh, thank the gods!”

  She fanned herself as she turned away, chuckling and stuttering out her apologies.

  “Why on Sferra would someone say something like that? Red?” She babbled, wiping at the tears from her eyes. “Why red? Tok za vilg?” She announced, shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders at the ridiculousness of the phrase. She waved her hand in dismissal of something, laughter rustling free the last of her worries from her chest.

  “I mean, for fuck’s sake, at least go with something that sounds nicer–like green! ‘Paint the town green’ would have been–

  Tazaro’s eyebrows shot into the sky, unnerved at her state. He couldn’t believe it, but the heavy relief he saw in her composure made his skin tingle with anxiety.

  Had she thought something…criminal?

  –Wait, Sheeva, wait!”

  Tazaro rushed around to stop her with a grasp of her shoulders as he steadied her in front of him. As she gasped and blinked at him with a starry-eyed look that glimmered with fear, his rough hold of her shoulders softened. He rubbed her arms in apology for grabbing her so fiercely.

  “Sheeva.” He sighed heavily, voice laced with determination. “Tell me: what did you think I meant?” He asked, locking eyes with her.

  She gaped at him for a few seconds as barely inaudible and faltered words fell from her lips before she managed a haughty scoff that seemed to help her reset.

  “I…” She began with a long sigh. “Thought that, uh–but, only for a moment,” She insisted, raising her hands to grab onto his. The strong fingers were warm to her cold ones.

  “That you…had lost your mind and that ‘paint the town red’ meant to, ah, murder someone–people. Multiple people.” She admitted, dropping her head in shame before nodding it slowly in confirmation.

  Tazaro coughed to cover up the laugh threatening to escape him and fervently shook his head.

  “NO!” He barked, pulling her to his chest before she could see the show of amusement, not willing to make her feel any more embarrassed as she already did. “No, no, no!”

  Still, he laughed, chest shaking as he clutched her to himself and swayed from side to side in comfort. When her stunned hands returned the hug and pressed into his back, he pecked the crown of her head and gave another long sigh.

  You’ve really been through the wringer, haven’t you, Sheeva? Tazaro thought, rubbing her back as she settled into his embrace.

  “Hey.” He called, pulling his head back to look at her with a smile. She lifted her head off his chest to look at him, eyes ducking away into the corners as a small pouty frown occupied her lips.

  With a smirk that curled into his cheek and a soft snort at himself, he pecked her forehead.

  “How’s about we paint the town green instead?” He asked.

  Tazaro welcomed the serenity sweeping over him as he successfully elicited the response he was vying for: a pure, resonant laugh that sang sweet and happy music to his soul.

  “Tam.” She agreed.

  “Good! We’ll make you some fond memories of this place!”

  He laced his fingers together to lock his arms around her waist. His citrine eyes were warm and aglow with glee, and as he gave a few loving pecks on her lips, he hummed in a swoon.

  “Maybe, there’s a greenhouse somewhere that we can tour. If not, we’ll…” He paused, hum-hawing as he thought of something else they could do. “We’ll buy a book and read together in a cafe with some chocolate croissants–unless they don’t have chocolate. We might have to suffer through plain ones.” He added with a joking wink.

  This earned a small smile from Sheeva as she chuckled at his remark. She sighed, feeling the fight-or-flight pin-prick of adrenaline subside from her goosebump-riddled skin.

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  “If you don’t like that, we could join the crew in the bar, hustle their drunk butts for cash, get a little sloshed ourselves, find a hotel room, and toss your underwear across the room.” He offered with a coy smile, giving a naughty giggle as she squeaked in surprise and wrinkled her nose. Still, the mischievous smirk behind a hand made him buzz with excited anticipation, and he tipped his head forward for another, longer kiss that delivered a shockwave of magnetism from head to toe.

  He had to admit his slight disappointment as she pulled back and settled back onto her feet, already feeling the tug of allure pluck at his heartstrings.

  “How about all of that?” Sheeva decided with a cheery smile.

  Tazaro nodded and squeezed her hand in appreciation, happy that he could help abate her nerves.

  They turned to face the plaza. It reminded Sheeva much of Raynak’s main entertainment plaza, where dancers, musicians, jesters, and magicians came to showcase their talents, but Rascal’s Cove’s plaza was nowhere near as spacious. She wondered if different performers would run their routines at different times and if Tazaro might enjoy sitting in on something.

  She smiled and assured herself that he would be over the moon about the luxury of new media to listen to or watch.

  The statue they stood next to that had received Sheeva’s earlier glare seemed to hog most of the layered grey and dusty-red bricks that disappeared beneath booted bronze feet. His tailcoat and puffed chest suggested a well-dressed, well-fed, extravagant man. The look was made complete with a fancy mustache and a monocle.

  She glanced at the title engraved on a placard and frowned. It seemed the statue memorialized the past or current town mayor.

  Hm, well-cared for, while others suffer, perhaps. Sheeva reminded herself that initial looks could be deceiving and that, perhaps, Cruinia had a few prosperous years thanks to the man immortalized in bronze.

  The corner of the plaza to the northwest continued off into a wide, paved road, marking the way towards Cruinia’s capital city, Torde. She put the looming destination out of her mind for the moment and turned around to see what else the port city might have to offer. As the tavern that the Hafez crew slipped into caught her eye, Sheeva tipped her head toward it.

  “Suppose we could start by hustling for cash. We’ve yet to do that.” She said with a cocky smirk.

  Tazaro quirked an eyebrow, his interest piqued. Eagerly, he followed her as she stepped toward the sturdy, wooden, two-floored building.

  With the thrilling prospect of spending a day meandering the town and a not-so-quiet evening making love aside, Sheeva wondered how much cash they would manage to win from the others since it all depended on what they were going to do. She didn’t have any experience playing poker, and the few times she had peered over Tazaro’s shoulder left her confused and disinterested. But, he always seemed to win more often than not and assured her that “luck” had nothing to do with it.

  The loud ruckus inside pelted her eardrums as they stepped through the door, and as they peered around beyond a wafting cloud of cigar smoke, they found the large crew piled around a few roundtables. Half of the crew sat with Captain Burke at one table, and the other half sat at another with Lenus, Dr. Sivvers included. Sheeva had to admit, she was surprised to see the likely heartbroken doctor sitting with the crew and enjoying the festivities, but as the red-haired woman bowed her head and appeared to be brooding over a large tankard of spirits, Sheeva realized the poor woman was neither being festive nor enjoying herself.

  Sheeva leaned to Tazaro’s ear to murmur her intent to console the woman, broke away, and headed for the table. She tipped her head in acknowledgment at the other’s cheerful greetings, approached Lucille, and wedged her way between the doctor and one of the other deckhands, who scooted his chair aside. She didn’t recognize the new man and took him for a new hire.

  “Lucille,” Sheeva called, resting a hand on Lucille’s shoulder.

  Lucille looked up with a morose glossy-eyed stare that made Sheeva wonder how far she was into her drinks, but when the stare hardened and turned pained with a scowl that spanned the woman’s lips, Sheeva frowned in turn. Lucille shrugged Sheeva’s hand off her shoulder and turned back to her mug. She finished it with a few chugs, panting heavily as she slammed the mug unceremoniously down on the wooden table. The other’s chatter died to silence as they stopped and stared at the two women, momentarily confused.

  Lucille rose to her feet with such force that the chair skidded across the wooden floor and fell backward. Sheeva turned to watch the chair fall in shock, then squeezed her eyes shut and stumbled to the side as something soft and stern struck her cheek. The sting on her cheek matched the fiercely loud echo of the smack that rang in her ears, and Sheeva brought up a hand to caress the tender thing.

  Snapping out of her initial surprise when Lucille brusquely bashed her shoulder into Sheeva’s, Sheeva wheeled around to look at the angry woman, desperately trying to figure out what she had been struck for. Lucille was well on her way out of the front door.

  Fallen chair ignored, Sheeva gave chase. Stepping out into the heat, she looked right, then left, just in time to see the flash of Lucille’s coat disappear into the confines of an alley. She shoveled past a group trying to enter and headed for the alley, hoping to catch Lucille before she could fully disappear.

  It seemed Lucille was incapable of running away; when Sheeva caught up to her on the far end of the stone-laid alley, she found Lucille leaned against the wall, panting and spitting away remnants of her upheaved stomach. Sheeva did not reach out a comforting hand and instead crossed her arms for comfort while she waited for the woman’s raspy coughing and disgusted groaning to finish.

  The stern, spiteful look that the doctor gave Sheeva made her shudder slightly, and she crossed her arms tighter around herself, then returned the stare.

  “What…what are you angry about, Lucille?” Sheeva asked, trying not to decide for herself on any of the multiple assumptions running through her head: that she and Tazaro were not fully Sferran, or that they had functional wings and could do such bizarre things as defeat monsters from legend and cast frilly spells, or that they had concealed such dangerous things about themselves and inadvertently threatened her life.

  “Bartholomew,” She spat, eyes narrowing to slits in seething anger.

  Sheeva blinked, surprised again, both with herself and with Lucille. Of all the possibilities that had kept her awake for the first few days after their brush with the Ice-Basiliska, Lucille’s concerns about Bartholomew had not been one of them.

  “It’s not fair–what you are going to do. He’s–he’s your friend, isn’t he?” She asked, face now scrunched in pain as she pushed herself off the wall and accentuated with an equally strong, crossed-arms stance. It was almost enough to unnerve Sheeva.

  Sheeva closed her mouth and sighed through her nose, her tongue resting uncomfortably against the roof of her mouth. She dropped her gaze to the side, already feeling the tightness of the frown on her forehead as her eyebrows furrowed together in her pout.

  “He told you, then,” She muttered, disappointed that she would need to discuss this again so soon after coming clean with Tazaro.

  “Yeah, he told me! Said you promised to kill him after you were done with Zakaraia!” Lucille cried, throwing an accusatory finger in Sheeva’s face. “What, are you just going to accept this?”

  Sheeva scowled even more, too tired to hide her easily roused anger from her face.

  “Like hell, I want to accept this!” Sheeva snapped in retort, finally making eye contact with Lucille. Angry, pained red eyes pierced pained, angry blue for a short time before Sheeva sighed again and dropped her tough-girl facade. Her hands fell to her sides, and she shook her head in dismay.

  “Look…” She began hesitantly. “I don’t want to do it. I won’t take pleasure in it. But, I still promised, and besides, I–” She paused, then shrugged her shoulders. “I empathize with him. I, I get it. Why he wants…what he wants.” She grumbled.

  “You can’t even fucking say it.” Lucille hissed through her teeth in disbelief and disgust.

  Sheeva inwardly flinched as the truth yanked at her heartstrings. Saying it repeatedly would continue to solidify it into something more terrifyingly concrete, and she bowed her head in shame.

  “He asked me to grant him his eternal repose, yes. To end his life and spare him his lonesome fate.”

  “So you’re just going to kill him?” Lucille scoffed. “Just like that? Like–like some animal?” She demanded to know, taking a few steps forward. She felt the squish of her vomit beneath her shoe but didn’t acknowledge the putrid, bile-riddled stuff on the ground, too busy staring Sheeva in the face.

  “I will do no such thing! Bartholomew deserves better than that!” Sheeva countered, unable to fathom giving Bartholomew anything less than an honorable death.

  “Who are we to argue with what others want for themselves in this regard?” Sheeva murmured, nibbling on her thumbnail as the unsettling guilt began to well itself in the pit of her stomach.

  “If not myself and Tazaro, who else? Someone who might torture him, instead? Are we to leave him to commit suicide? Alone?” Sheeva questioned, doubtful her points would take seed and bear fruit. "Say you had a patient with terminal sickness–would you favor your pride and selfishness, and leave them to suffer to the end, or would you permanently ease their pain if they asked you to?"

  It seemed to stick to Lucille’s drink-addled brain, and as she blinked a few times while gaping for a poorly constructed answer, Sheeva continued, finally admitting something she had come to understand about herself while musing about the possible curse of immortality.

  “It is what I would want in my end of days, too, if I were immortal and had forgotten my husband’s face or most of the memories I held dear.” She announced, clearing away the tickle of sheepishness at the back of her throat. Perhaps she was being melodramatic, but for all the downplaying and rationalizing she had done for herself, the fact that she would prefer not to be alone in her final moments still rung true each time.

  Lucille blinked, then sighed heavily as she recalled Bartholomew saying something similar–how he’d become something of a legend or otherwise entirely forgotten. How faces he’d cherished had faded over the years, or how memories had become warped through recitals of what could have been.

  She tried to hold onto the shred of understanding she’d had when he’d dropped such a bombshell on her, and with a reluctant sigh, Lucille slouched in submission with a wistful smile.

  “I just–She began, then sniffled as she huffed in annoyance. “I just wish that I could have–She crossed her arms, suddenly embarrassed of her admittance in front of the constantly stoic woman that seemed so put together.

  “That you could have what, Lucille?” Sheeva asked, determined not to allow awkward airs to suffocate what seemed to be an important issue for the doctor that had simply patched them up with no questions asked.

  Lucille huffed at herself as she retrieved a necklace from beneath her shirt and gazed at it forlornly, a melancholic smile on her face. It seemed a trifle trinket, but as Sheeva peered closer, she recognized the lacquered blue shimmer of one of Bartholomew’s scales.

  “Could have known him for just…a little longer. He was funny. Fascinating. Artistic.” She wished, wrapping her arms around herself in a hug. “Tender.” She sighed, almost able to feel the shadow of his final embrace as firm arms, wings, and tail wrapped around her body to hug her to him. She’d miss the rumble in his chest at gravelly, contented sighs or lulling pleased purrs that swooned her towards sleep as he filled her head with tidbits of history that would never be captured in the pages of books. Battles won and wars lost, attempts of tyranny successfully carried out or silently thwarted, and even events of a worldwide plague laying waste to thousands of Sferran lives.

  Because, as he so eloquently put, history is passed on by those who survive, or those who win, or those who are luckily literate.

  Sheeva, unsure of what she could say to console the heartbroken woman, stepped closer and wrapped her arms around Lucille’s shoulders to pull her into a hug.

  “It’ll be as quick and humane as I can make it, Lucille. I can at least promise you that.” Sheeva assured, surprised her soft voice even carried past her taut vocal chords.

  Whatever composure Lucille had left in her crumbled into dust, and the wails poured out into Sheeva’s shoulder as Lucille gave in to the need to mourn. Lucille barely registered the comforting pat Sheeva offered as sobs racked her body.

  Lucille pulled away and retrieved a handkerchief from her coat pocket and blew her stuffy nose, then groaned as she felt the puffiness of her likely bulging, reddened eyes. She pressed her fingers to her eyes gently to soothe and rub at their ache, grimacing at the throb of a headache, then flinched from surprise as Sheeva tapped her temple.

  Feeling the strings of her inebriated headache tug and crawl through her brain like worms and out of a chilly spot on her temple was highly unnerving, and Lucille shuddered from the eerie drag and pull. As she no longer felt the dull pain behind her forehead, Lucille stammered out a broken, questioning “thank you,” to which Sheeva gave a small chuckle.

  As another act of repentance, Sheeva grabbed a spare piece of cloth and wet it with water from her canteen. After a quick glance behind her for any stragglers lagging behind, Sheeva formed a sigil depicting a snowflake. She chilled the wet cloth with a simple tap and handed it to Lucille to slap over her sore, tired, puffy eyes.

  Lucille stared at the cold, sopping thing in her hand, then pressed it to her eyes, sighing in further relief past a mildly stuffy nose. As she peered at her shoes, she scowled and set to scraping off the bottom of her soles on clean bricks and piles of moss.

  “You can head back inside if you want,” Lucille dismissed Sheeva, mildly embarrassed at her still inebriated state.

  “No. I’ll wait.” Sheeva insisted, though ensuring Lucille some privacy as she crossed her arms and turned her back to the woman trying to put herself back together. It allowed her the brief moment she needed to prod at her cheek in curiosity. The slight touch still stung.

  With a final, heavy, ready sigh, Lucille headed for the entrance to the alleyway. Sheeva followed and hoped the others wouldn’t give them too much crap for the sudden, non-existent catfight.

  “Lucille, wait,” Sheeva called, grabbing at Lucille’s elbow before they reached the entrance door. Lucille gave an exasperated sigh but stopped anyway and turned to face Sheeva.

  “If it helps, uh…” Sheeva began, wondering if it would be helpful, considering the subject matter. “Write Bartholomew a letter, and I’ll give it to him the next time we see him. I made him promise he wouldn’t tackle Zakaraia by himself, and I’m sure he’ll stick to it.” She shook her head at her tangent.

  “Anyway, I, ah, think he would appreciate something like that.”

  Lucille’s lips pursed together into a terse, pouty frown, but as she gave a slight nod, Sheeva tipped her head.

  Nothing more to say, Sheeva led the way, holding the door open for Lucille and a couple of others that were pushing their way out, then slipped into the loud, buzzing tavern. While Lucille made her way to the bar to order a room for the evening, Sheeva searched for Tazaro, unsure of where he’d been when she’d followed Lucille out of the door.

  He was casually engaged in a round of poker, and her eyebrows raised, impressed with the small pile of winnings he’d seemed to have earned in the twenty-or-so-minutes she had been away with Lucille. After ordering herself a much-needed drink, she crossed the room and sauntered to their table to peek at his hand over his shoulder.

  From what few games she’d played with him and the crew on nights when the waters were still, it appeared the hand he’d been dealt was absolute shit, but she held her tongue and sipped at her drink. He seemed to be betting carefully on this round, and she couldn’t blame him, currently holding nothing that would work in his favor. He looked over, then up at her as she rested a hand on his shoulder and gave a squeeze to signal her return.

  “Welcome back. I’ve gotten us a room for whenever you’re ready to retire. How’s Lucille?” He asked, setting the hand of crap face-down on the table.

  Sheeva glanced back over at the bar. The doctor was sitting down, nursing a drink with a pen in hand and scribbling furiously on a sheet of paper.

  “Fine. Taking my advice in regards to our mutual friend’s last request. How goes the game?” She asked.

  “He’s been kicking our ass since we started, the feathery fuck.” Captain Burke grunted past a cigar clenched between his teeth. The gold band around the regal brown paper suggested it was something expensive, and Sheeva doubted it had come from any local vendors. Perhaps, it’d come from the man’s secret stash.

  “I swear to you, it’s pure luck,” Tazaro stated, rubbing his earlobe–a nonverbal signal that he was bluffing through his teeth. Sheeva sipped at her drink again to hide the curl of the corner of her mouth.

  “That is an impressive hand; I’ll give it that.” Sheeva fibbed, completing the act with a toast and another sip. She hummed at the whiskey as it coated her tongue and spilled through her throat. The alcohol shot straight through her and created a heated pool between her legs, and with a sly grin, she leaned her mouth next to Tazaro’s ear.

  “I can think of even better uses for your hands, though, dear.”

  The blush that rose into his cheeks was incredibly satisfying, and Sheeva couldn’t help the coy smile break on her face. Tazaro shuffled his coins into their coin pouch with a swoop of his arm, discarded his hand, and hurried to catch up with her. Sheeva barely overheard the unbelievable outbursts and protests that Tazaro had been playing them the whole time, too interested in getting to the room he had reserved for them for the evening.