A week passes. Deach stays glued to his notepads, gathering information and staying in contact with Masato. The Ministry holds an internal meeting when things become strained between Kanon and Felicia after the hush-money incident. Masato comes forward with his case, making things worse. Both Kanon and Felicia are then subject to internal review by a scarce Vincent. Karla pores over the tabloids, piecing together that Felicia hasn't been seen outside during the day in three years. Masato was right that she sleeps in her office. She admitted to it in an interview. Karla examines the other Ministers, tacking papers on the wall to figure out which ones are vampires. Lucy revisits the news in Byra about Selena Ortega’s supposed death, trying to triangulate her position with my help. It’s a lost cause. The Heartwood is too big and thick. Jingles reports on Richard, who’s still utterly oblivious. And Deach and I ponder how to make the Gala a complete and utter embarrassment.

  We also undertake the impossible task of blowing 160,000 gold. We can’t spend it on valuables that the Guild could reclaim – no estates, skyships, magical items, or holdings. Instead, I give away hundreds in tips to every worker I come across. I set up a trust for Weekes’ kids, and the same for Arriel’s incoming child. I send her a new bread plate of pure platinum to replace the one Weekes disintegrated. I send a set of matching kimonos and a literal crate of minor magical toys to Weekes and Arriel each. I send a late wedding gift to Maesys and Lespira - a few bottles of impeccably polished sake and a set of bamboo nib pens. I send gold to the College in Carthesia to anonymously sponsor several bards. I send gold to the church of Iros in Sunai. I send ten more gold each to the slaves I know have permanent residence. I buy kegs of 450-year-old dwarven whiskey and 800-year-old Byrian wine, and we drink them all.

  It doesn't stop there. Deach arranges the first birthday party I’ve had in six years, and we rent out the Glass Lily for dinner while Simulacrum and Garfunkel plays a private show. We get front-row seats at the Diamond Amphitheater for Midsummer Sun, the most popular show of the last ten years, about a shapeshifter making a bet that they can’t pair up a noblewoman and a peasant by midsummer, playing both sides of the romance until the couple actually meets. I chuck two handfuls of gold to party with the cast afterward. I take the whole team to the spa at the Cherry Blossom Resort. Karla gets a new wardrobe. We visit a private menagerie owned by a prominent business-monger. Deach picks the locks, and I compensate them for their losses. We throw a party at the penthouse every night of the week. We invite dancers to our silver-plated pole, which I break in wearing Karla’s high heels. I have a famous chef teleported in from Sissthira to make dragon turtle soup and a five-course meal. Karla alchemizes stacks of gold into silver so Oka can make bullets. I shower Lucy, my supposed paramour, in expensive goods which she sends home only to be tragically lost at sea. I gift her more gold, and she sends it back to the Isles in a roundabout way, setting it aside for next year’s Drowning Man. I have my sky skiff parked atop the Cherry Blossom Resort and an access stairway installed. We put together small bags of coin that Jingles leaves in suspect areas of the city for people to find. And at the end of it all, we still have more left.

  Deach and I fuck a few times that week, once on the dining table during a particularly raucous party, another time in an unlocked washroom in a Guild Hall, and a third time against the glass wall of my quarters. I fuck a scruffy-looking human with long, dark hair in a vest and tight pants, then a rabbitfolk with purple eyeshadow in a gold, winged helmet and metal bra, then a hulking red half-devil woman with one horn. It's almost like we’re moving toward something more regular. Each time, he sleeps in my bed, now without asking. I sleep better on those nights. He doesn’t mention the fact my drinking’s been creeping back. On the nights when I blissfully black out, he’s there in the morning with coffee and water.

  Throughout it all, Iros is absent. When I pick my divine spells in the morning, I wing it. When I try talking to him, there’s nothing – not even a flicker. It stumps me. If I’m not his Champion anymore, I’d have known about it and lost my divine magic. But it still works.

  Finally, one morning, I go to church.

  I shrug on my chain jacket and gather my weapons and mandolin. Oka drives our luxurious new armored carriage, the size of two medium carriages put together. Genk and I could easily spoon on one of the benches. It’s lined with lead to prevent scrying, as well as soundproof. The windows are enchanted, so you can’t see in. There’s even a minibar. Oka needed special licensing for this thing. Deach took care of it.

  We stop outside the massive church of Iros. It’s somehow more extravagant than the church in the High in Carthesia. The roof is gold, with a gigantic gold-cast sun symbol at the top. The rest is rich wood, curved and buttressed and brightly painted. I tell Sven to wait with the carriage and step through the sliding doors of the church.

  Inside, a familiar stone statue stands in the center. Light cascades over it. People are kneeling on the floor or walking around. Through a sliding door, a cloistered garden stretches.

  An acolyte approaches, a young human. “The light be with –”

  She freezes, looking at me.

  “Would you mind bringing me to your High Cleric?” I ask, passing her my best smile.

  She stammers, not meeting my eye. “Of course, Champion. Right this way.”

  The same as last time, I’m brought into an office, although it’s less reserved. Behind the desk sits an old halfling wearing an elaborate white robe trimmed in gold. His white hair sprouts every which way.

  “High Priest, the –”

  “Blessed light,” he breathes, looking at me. He stands, coming around and bowing with my hand. “Champion. Be most welcome here. Thank you for gracing us. I’m Pander Clearbough, the High Priest.”

  “That’s kind of you,” I say. “Chouncey of Seven Oaks. Do you have a moment to chat?”

  “Of course. I’d be honored.”

  The acolyte leaves and shuts the door. I sit across from Pander, crossing my legs. “I’ve been having a bit of trouble getting… reception lately. Have you noticed anything odd?”

  He folds his small hands on the desk, hanging on my words. “What do you mean?”

  “The Light Daddy’s not talking to me anymore.”

  He blinks. “The Ligh - he talks to you?”

  “Well, he did. I understand he’s busy, but more than a week seems like a statement.”

  “I haven’t noticed anything unusual, and neither have the clergy. If you’re looking for spiritual guidance, I’m happy to lend you the talents the Dawn Lord gave me. Although I’m uncertain what help I can be to someone of a Champion’s faith.” He chuckles.

  I smile in return. I look at him for a moment. Why’s it just me then? I lean against a fist. He watches me expectantly. He seems too eager. I pause, checking his eyes.

  There’s a familiar bright blankness in them.

  A shiver goes up my spine. Another charm. Is he lying? My heart stutters. Vampires can’t stand sunlight. What’s more troublesome than a god of light? My mouth goes dry. What in the nine glorious hells is going on here?

  “How’s the church?” I ask. “Is there anything you need?”

  “Unfortunately, our numbers are declining,” Pander says. “Maybe it’s just my years, but all the young people have been flocking to the church of Lomir this past month.”

  I’ve not a single clue who Lomir is, although if I’m a cleric, my cock’s in my own ass. “Who’s that?”

  He sighs. “A new god of darkness. I suppose our domains aren’t so different, but it’s still difficult to see our Dawn Lord so weakened.”

  I slip out my flask and slug it. He blinks, watching me. The room’s spinning, but not because of the whiskey. I know who’d benefit from less light and more darkness.

  “Here,” I say. I take a pouch of 10,000 gold from my magical bag and slide it to him. “Hand this out and get people back here. In the meantime, I’ll keep trying.”

  His jaw drops. He quickly stows the gold out of sight. “Gods above. That’s profoundly generous. Thank you.”

  It’s the Guild’s money. Good luck to them if they try to reclaim it. I gesture with my flask. “You’re more than welcome. Helping people and killing people are what I’m best at. Have you got a cleric I can chat with?”

  He eagerly brings me to a half-giant who’s head and shoulders over me. We retreat to a small alcove in the cloistered garden near a fish pool and sit on a couple benches. The High Priest toddles back to his office. “How can I help you?” the half-giant says with surprising softness. His voice could narrate me into a nap, if not a few other things.

  I take a deep breath. “Teach me how to make holy water.”

  A half hour later, I return to the atrium. I pause in front of the stone statue of Iros. My chest aches. In some ways, I miss talking with him. He’s hardly my god. He’s more like my friend.

  I kneel in front of it, surrounded by lit candles. I scrape some offerings aside. I glance around, and people are watching, both acolytes and worshippers. Are they expecting a miracle from the Champion? They’re six months too late. I close my eyes and look inward.

  The surface of the pool is still calm and smooth, the churning black waters abated by a seal. But there’s only the picture of the pink sunset. Nothing stirs when I try to get his attention, prodding at my light-bound connections. There’s no presence even in one of his biggest churches, kneeling at his stone feet.

  “Are you there?” I whisper. It’s no surprise I’m ghosted by a god. Maybe I’m on my own. Maybe he's disappointed. I look at the gold light overhead. No answer comes.

  Suddenly, a pink spotlight casts over me.

  Music blares from the heavens, like a soaring celestial choir, the full chord of the ley lines. I freeze. Every head in the atrium turns. More poke out of alcoves and sliding doors, staring.

  When I glance up, there’s a cat.

  It descends seemingly from the heavens, like it’s held underneath its front legs. I squint. Its long, glossy fur is silvery gray with multicolored, rainbow flecks – or maybe scales – sheening in the light. It floats downward, coming to eye level and hovering. The music swells, the pink spotlight sweltering. It becomes a choir of cat voices. I glance behind me. Everyone’s gaping. They’re seeing this, too, then. I’m not that fucked up.

  The cat looks at me. Its eyes are gold, its nose fairy-pink. It floats, rotating a little. Its bushy tail swishes. Everyone’s still watching. I clear my throat. “Thanks, Light Daddy.”

  I grab the cat. It’s hefty – easily twenty pounds. The music halts, and the light fades. I set the cat on its paws. It sinks to its haunches and looks at me.

  “What am I supposed to do with you?” I whisper like it’s gonna answer me. People are still watching.

  Whiskey?

  I glance around. I heard it in my head, not out loud. It’s a small voice with a slight lisp.

  Whiskey.

  I look at the cat. It blinks. It’s talking to me.

  “Is that your name?” I ask. I’m having half a conversation with a cat.

  Can I have some?

  “You want –” I stop. I look like I’m having a crack-up. Or completely stewed. I stop myself from yelling at everyone watching that for once I’m sober, by Udon's thunderous cock. “Come on.”

  Where are we going?

  “Hopefully somewhere I’ll not get pitched in the drunk tank for chatting with you.”

  I heft the cat and leave the atrium. Eyes follow me. I only smile and nod. Outside, I find a smooth stone bench on the wide tiled path. I sit, setting the cat beside me.

  It puts paws on my chest, sniffing my pocket. “You can’t have that,” I say, moving it away.

  Yes, I can.

  “Alright, here. You’re gonna hate it.”

  I splash some whiskey on a finger and let the cat sniff it. It begins licking my finger.

  More?

  I pour a little on the stone bench. The cat begins lapping it.

  “Where’d you come from?”

  Light Daddy sent me.

  Days of no response, and he sends me a talking cat. I’m expected to take care of it, too, by my guess. He, of all people, knows my record of keeping things alive, myself included, is less than stellar.

  “What’s your name?”

  I don’t know.

  “You don’t know?”

  What’s your name?

  “I’m Chouncey of Seven Oaks.”

  That’s a lot. I’ll call you human.

  “Can I call you Whiskey?

  There’s a pause. Yes.

  “Are you a him or her?”

  What’s that mean?

  I pick it up. It squirms, stretching to lap up the whiskey on the bench. Its paws are hefty. I lift its bushy tail. I’m no expert, but somehow, it’s neither.

  A gnome shuffles by, looking at me, bushy brows furrowed.

  It’s okay. You can smell. I trust you.

  “I wasn’t - why’re you here?” I set them back down.

  I don’t know. Light Daddy sent me. He said you need help.

  “Sent you from where? The celestial plane?”

  I think so. I had wings.

  "A celestial being with wings" narrows it down not even a little. There’s all kinds of angels. I look at the shimmering rainbow tints on Whiskey’s fur. It casts off the sunlight overhead with dazzling brightness. But not many celestial things have scales, a half-angel animist in Lengenfeld once told me.

  “Were you a coatl?”

  They stop. They’ve lapped up every particle of whiskey and are cleaning the bench for good measure. Their tail straightens, curling at the tip. Yes.

  They put their paws on my shoulder again, sniffing my pocket. I find myself smiling and petting their head. They push against my hand. Coatls are draconic beings flitting around the celestial plane. This poor one got roped into helping me. But for this plane, a cat is more palatable. A catl.

  I glance up at the scamper of footsteps. A child runs up, grubby hands reaching. “I want to pet the kitty!”

  I grab Whiskey, pulling them against my chest. “They’re my cat, and they’re not for petting. Beat it.”

  Whiskey watches him cautiously, a hiss sliding out. He frowns. “Mama said I could.”

  I don’t see a mama anywhere in a square mile. “Your mama’s full of shit, as I’m sure you are too, you walking pisspot. Get lost.”

  “You’re a jerk,” he throws back, flipping a middle finger.

  I throw a middle finger back. He scarpers off.

  I heft Whiskey onto my shoulder. Their claws latch onto my chain jacket. When I return to the carriage, Sven and Oka are chatting outside, waiting. They both turn and stare.

  “Whiskey's gonna be our newest team member,” I say.

  Oka tips his hat. It’s magical and prevents him from getting dirty while he’s wearing it. “Well, meowdy, little Whiskey.”

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  He stops and blinks.

  “They talk,” I say.

  “I reckon so.”

  We climb in, and Oka takes us to the nearest pet shop. I nearly buy the whole store. I grab food, toys, a shit box, a harness, a brush, and more. Whiskey picks out a cat tree and collar – it’s pink with a little sun charm on it. I’m not the first to walk around a pet store talking to their pet, but I get odd looks all the same.

  We return to the penthouse, and I knock on the door. “I love cock,” I sing. A worker sweeping the hallway side-eyes me.

  Deach opens the door a moment later in his half-orc form. “Where the fuck –”

  Whiskey jumps from my shoulder, inviting themself in. Deach only blinks, words tumbling out half-formed. I head inside, Sven and Oka following.

  “This here’s Whiskey,” I say. “Whiskey, this is Deach. Say hello.”

  No.

  I pause. “Why not?”

  Smells weird.

  “He smells weird?”

  Deach cuts in. “Are you talking to it?”

  I gesture at Whiskey. “They’re telepathic. They can talk to you.”

  I don’t want to. Whiskey stretches against the couch. Their claws flex, slashing into leather. Stuffing pours out.

  Deach gives me a tired look. I sigh, touch the couch, start humming, and fix it.

  That night, I finish assembling a cat tree and sit beside Deach on the couch. He’s in his half-orc form, talking to someone on his magical notepad. For no reason that I can place, he's got a trim black mustache over his tusks. An abandoned, half-eaten banana’s on the table next to him. My illusion is playing instrumental Back Stabbath, drifting at an unobtrusive level. The couch is slashed again. I’ve given up fixing it. I’ve given up trimming Whiskey’s claws, too, after I spent two spells putting skin back on my forearms. Whiskey’s perched on the cat tree against the glass wall, looking over the city. Their tail twitches as my arcane hand pats their backside. They still won’t talk to Deach, citing a litany of reasons, including his scent, overall demeanor, and an uncomfortable-looking lap.

  We’re tired of partying for a week straight, so everyone's retired to their quarters or gathered at the table playing a Byrian board game Lucy brought. Expectedly, Genk is destroying them. Oka’s at the table, too, cleaning his guns next to Karla, who’s overseeing a small, bubbling cauldron of potions between turns.

  “I’ve got an idea,” I say to Deach, reaching across and finishing his banana. I’ve made it the rest of the day without drinking. I want to, and badly. My flask is on the table nearby, crammed full of stickers. I cross my arms, keeping myself from reaching for it.

  “Hmm?” Deach asks, looking up from his notepad.

  The smell of his Byrian cologne wafts. It’s tantalizing. “How quickly can you shift?”

  His tan eyes narrow. “Why?”

  I shrug, leaning and looking him over. “How quickly can you shift?”

  His eyes wander. I’m wearing a slutty little cropped shirt with two pink sun icons over the tits. “Pretty quickly.”

  I tilt my head. “Do you think you can keep up?”

  A slow smile pulls at his lips, stretching over slight tusks. His mossy skin becomes inky, and he swirls into his fuckable half-elven form. “Let’s find out.”

  I heft him, legs wrapped around my waist, and carry him into the bedroom. I give a sharp whistle. The door rattles shut behind us. I dump him on the bed and put my mouth on him.

  He pulls his illusory armor off, his breath quickening. He takes off everything underneath it, then puts the armor back on. It shifts into a plain shirt and pants. He wears it almost until he goes to sleep. “I’m ready,” he says.

  I pluck a few harmonic tones on my mandolin, crafting an illusion from pink magic. It lies over the room, ready to change. I flick out my arcane hand and join him in bed. My blood thrums. “Half-angel, but make it scary," I say into his lips.

  He blurs and melds into a gold-skinned half-angel with rippling muscle and piercing, glowing white eyes. Translucent wings brush behind him. He’s wearing a very thin breechcloth and gold armbands. He pushes on top of me. A dagger appears, and he slices off my shirt. I’ll fix it later. He pauses and gapes. My illusion shifts into an airy, marbled church, the ethereal celestial plane beyond, mountainous and ever sunny. Warm choir music colors the scene, and a row of acolytes watch attentively. We're on a giant marble altar.

  “The scale of your virtue has been found wanting,” he says in a voice I feel in my prostate. I see why they call him the Mask.

  “You’re gonna have to make me repent, then.”

  He does.

  He’s got a hand around my throat and one around a neck further down when I say, “Satyr. She’s a lost faun in the woods and needs help.”

  He shifts into a plump, horned woman with goat legs, freckles, and luscious, curled, red hair. She’s top-heavy, wearing a low-cut teal dress with clearly nothing underneath. She rolls onto her back, chewing on a long fingernail painted pale pink. “Could you help me?” she drawls sweetly. My illusion shifts into a dense, magical forest, butterflies and glowing bugs drifting by. We’re on a thick carpet of moss nestled between tree roots.

  I put my tongue in her mouth. She gasps in delight, arching into me. Her goat legs lock me there. I groan.

  “But I’m gonna be late for the Running,” she says. Suddenly, her tits are out of her dress. “Oh no!”

  “We’re not too far off. We’ll get started here,” I say.

  We do.

  We continue, shifting and playing. Time loses meaning. I’m electrified. This is the best thing I’ve ever done.

  “Twinky high-elf who’s gonna breed me into a better family. It was an arranged marriage.”

  “Despicable. At least our offspring will have class – treasure the gift of my genetic material.”

  “Half-devil who’s making deals on behalf of her patron. She’s desperate.”

  “You don’t know what he’ll do if I come back without another soul. I’ll do anything… a tailjob? And you’ll sign?”

  “Gnome doctor who’s having trouble being eye-to-eye during an exam. It’s been longer than four hours.”

  “Could you, um… cough please?”

  “Catfolk getting distracted at the bathhouse. They’re an attendant.”

  “Sir, you missed a spot. Oh… here, let me get it.”

  “Dragonkin who’s an actual dragon. The party's outside, counting on me.”

  “Hmph. You make a compelling case. Please me, and I won’t incinerate you.”

  Finally, I roll onto my back, positively soaked in sweat. He’s gasping beside me. It’s been hours without release. I’m aching in places I didn’t think I could. Every nerve in my body’s ready to explode.

  “Ruin me,” I say.

  He heaves on his hands and knees. He’s a giant yellow birdfolk. “How do you want to finish?”

  I brush hair from my face. The illusion of an empty classroom fades, revealing the bedroom. “Surprise me.”

  He removes his armor, then straddles me, becoming inky. I stop breathing. My mouth is dry, and I can only stare. He turns into me. He gives a charming, slightly cocky smile, dark hair falling from its topknot.

  “Does this suit you?” he says in my voice.

  A few moments later, I can’t feel my toes.

  He returns to his fuckable half-elf form. After a quick Southern Wash in the washroom, I snap the sheets clean and collapse into bed beside him. I snap my fingers again, and the lights go out.

  “Hey, is it okay if we, um… cuddle?” he asks quietly.

  That’s the last thing I expected. An old feeling tugs at me to leave. I'm not sure why. I lift an arm he lies against my chest. He smells like sex and the faint lingering of his cologne.

  The nighttime’s dead silent. “You mentioned a husband,” I say. I can’t say why that particular detail stuck with me.

  He stiffens for a split moment, then draws a finger across my skin. “Yeah. He’s dead.”

  My stomach wilts. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. “Gods, I’m terribly sorry to hear that.”

  Just when I think he’s not gonna say more, he speaks. “Vincent got him killed. We were in an adventuring party together for this ancient dungeon far north of here – before he was a Minister. We were after an old book. Once we found it, Vincent took it and ran. It triggered a trap, and we were overwhelmed. I was the only other one who got out alive.”

  “And you went after him?”

  “I tried. I spent a lot of time setting myself up, blackmailing and bribing. I even took out a lot of corruption along the way. People started thanking me and calling me the Mask. I started wearing one, even. Then I went on that fucking date with Richard. His information was bad, and Vincent was home when he wasn’t supposed to be.”

  “You think he set you up?”

  He snorts. “No. I think he’s an idiot. I shouldn’t have trusted it. I was lonely, stupid, and horny.”

  “We’ve all been there.” I pause. Maybe he’s there right now. “What was his name? Your husband.”

  “Boris. He was an arcanist and great with telekinetics. This is him.” A miniature portrait in a locket appears in his hand. I light up my pick and peer at it. It shows a slender elf woman with dark, earthy skin and black hair, standing beside a familiar half-orc.

  “I like his gender.”

  “This is him,” he says, pointing to the half-orc.

  A lot of words come to mind, but none of them do it justice. “I’m sorry you lost him.”

  He takes the locket back, and it vanishes. His voice begins to tremble. “The worst part is that the five years didn’t help. I wish I’d had that time to grieve. I might even be ready to move on. But it’s like it just happened. I never forgot the feeling of leaving that dungeon, knowing he wasn’t coming with me. He always said we’d make it big one day and he’d take me to the Gala. It’s a one-in-a-million chance, but… Anyway, I’m sorry for dumping this on you. I haven’t had anyone to talk to about it. You’ve got your own shit.”

  “It's good you’re talking about it rather than drinking about it,” I say. I’m not sure why I talk about these things, given how often we sling insults.

  He pauses, looking at me. His breath is a warm kiss on my face. “What was it like, then? Being a slave?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  He shrugs. “To understand you, I guess.”

  I laugh. Across the pool, deep in my mind, a ripple surfaces. “I could spend the rest of my years looking for words to tell you that.”

  “What about this? You haven’t talked about it.” He brushes a finger across my ankle. I snake it back under the sheets.

  “For obvious reasons, I’d think.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  The cutting smell of seared meat wafts from the depths. Why am I still opening my mouth? “Not anymore. It itches terribly sometimes, though. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I’m half convinced he knows all this about me, concerningly good at accruing information as he is. I don’t like that he’s asking. “I get it. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

  My mouth is dry. I need to get out of here, but he’s rooted me in place. The words come out before I can stop them. “He’s been dead for six months, and sometimes I still see him.”

  He squeezes me. “I’d be honored to hear the whole story sometime.”

  “Nobody’s ever heard the whole story, and it’ll stay that way.” The deep, dark depths of those waters in my mind can stay sealed there until my last breath.

  He pauses. “Fair enough. When I asked around, people said that’s where you got that lute –”

  “Mandolin.”

  “Yeah, that. Is that how you learned?”

  My guts clench. “I played the fiddle before that. I lost it, though. But anyway, maybe you can tell me about Boris.”

  He pauses, but then nods. “We never did weird shit like this. He liked it slow and passionate, which was great, don’t get me wrong. And we were exclusive. But… I don’t know.”

  He trails off and doesn’t say anything more. After a moment, he rolls over, his slender back against me.

  The door creeps open. Nobody’s there. The sound of soft snoring comes from Sven outside. Then, there’s a new weight on the bed.

  It’s Whiskey. They pad over and put all twenty pounds directly on my stomach, then curl up at my side. They begin purring.

  Goodnight, human. I’ll wake you if there’s any predators.

  It slams into me like a dreadnought. On the glassy surface of the pool in my mind, I see a familiar room – one that doesn’t exist, but one I’ve stood in all the same. A sweeping balcony thrusts into the endless sea and blazing sun, drifting with the faint music of droning waves and the celestial plane. There’s a large, heart-shaped bed with daggers sitting on the nightstand and a cat tree in the corner. And the air wafts of Byrian cologne – citrus and pine wood.

  My throat clamps, and I look at the small statuette in the corner. It’s dark. Or maybe there’s a faint glimmer of pink light.

  The next morning, I send word to the Fuzzy Back that I’d like to rent their best people tonight. I send an obscene amount of gold, too.

  It’s been sticking in my head ever since Kanon mentioned the Minister of Construction is a frequenter there. He can’t be the only one. Those workers must have information. And it’s more money I can blow and give the impression I’m having the time of my life on the Guild’s tab.

  I spend the morning making holy water in large batches. It’s got an odd quality, like sunlight scattering. It tastes like the color gold. I feel better in an inexplicable way, a nagging cut between my fingers sealing over. We pile it in the magical bag. Karla helps Oka work on a launcher attachment for his long gun – a rifle. She’s got grenades and bores them out, emptying sand rather than black powder. Lucy and I make another public appearance, grabbing coffee, flirting, and getting handsy at the shop down the street. All the while, she continues to school me on the Byrian council and what to expect when this unfolds. I can expect favors if we’re successful. Likely, the Isles can enjoy their independence for a very long time, which is good for my longevity.

  Deach is awkward after our chat last night. But when we have a moment alone, he gives me a long hug and a lingering kiss on my neck, not saying anything. Is he trying to comfort me? Or comfort himself?

  Finally, the resort workers set up food, drinks, and overall atmosphere. I tip them several hundred gold. I throw an illusion over the main area, drifting with unobtrusive music and casting shifting, ambient light. Our featured guests arrive. A chorus of voices comes from outside the door. “I love cock.” Chaste laughter follows.

  I open the door to find a gaggle of some of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen.

  I glance over two birdfolk, a half-giant, a catfolk, an elf, and an ogre. They’re made up and dressed in what I can only describe as sexy in six different ways. “What astounding people,” I breathe. I’m wearing a plush pink robe that Sven found. It’s enchanted with extra protection, not unlike my armor. “Come in. Enjoy yourselves. I’m Chouncey of Seven Oaks, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”

  “Oh, we’ve heard,” the half-giant purrs. She’s completely bald and pierced and looks like she could chuck me across the room. I’d be thrilled to find out. She gives a lingering look from a foot up. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet, Warchief.”

  I beckon them inside. The team is already mingling, grazing on snacks and drinks. “These are all the wonderful people I keep close.” I make introductions. “And this is Rachmiel, who’ll be attending to us tonight.”

  I gesture at the opalescent, turquoise planetar offering a platter of garnished negronis.

  He’s a ten-foot-tall pile of muscle, feathery wings brushing the ceiling, wearing nothing but a pink bowtie. The only weapon he needs is south of his waist. He only cost me seventy-five stickers. I’m running out of room and have to spend them. I’m half convinced Iros isn’t paying attention anymore and is kicking stickers my way in the hopes I’m doing what I should be.

  “May justice triumph on this dark night,” Rachmiel says in angelic. His voice choruses around the penthouse. His glowing gold eyes sweep over the workers.

  “You’re serving drinks, not justice,” I return in angelic. “Although maybe you can triumph on my chest later.”

  “And the wicked will fall.”

  I nod. “They will indeed.” I turn back to the workers. “Let’s have some fun.”

  We laze around the sitting room, where we’ve brought in extra couches and even a spare bed on a platform. My illusion plays erotically slow, bassy music, and Mittens, the tuxedoed catfolk, does an admirable dance number on our silver-plated pole. Food and drink flow, and conversation burbles. Whiskey threads through the crowd, snatching up leftovers. At a certain point, I spot them riding on Rachmiel’s shoulders. I think they know each other.

  The Fuzzy Back workers are true professionals. Deach quickly discovers Rus, the elf, who’s actually another shapeshifter. I can’t tell if they’re talking shop or flirting, but they’re in a different configuration every time I see them. Coin changes hands when they’re both sitting Deach's fuckable half-elf form. Genk is widely popular, and he squats both Fletch and Fion, the two birdfolk. Jingles joins, too. Argus, the ogre, hits it off with Lucy. He’s an experienced masseuse and a gentleman. I spot her topless on the bed in the sitting area, getting oiled up. Karla and Oka spend a considerable amount of time in the kitchen, chatting over drinks. Sven lingers awkwardly at my side until I tell him to get fucked and slap him together with Fletch. Rachmiel carries me around while I check on everyone – or at least those who aren’t behind a closed door.

  Night falls, and I sing and play with Mittens on my lap while people go into various rooms or, in Lucy’s case, get bent over the couch.

  “So, Warchief,” Hiroi says. She’s the half-giant. She lounges beside me, expansive arm leaning against the back of the couch. “How did you hear about us?”

  I cross a leg as Mittens claims a seat on the other side. “Someone told me the Fuzzy Back is the place to go if you’re anyone special. I am, or so my mother tells me. I thought I’d bring you here and save myself the hassle of choosing.”

  She smiles. It goes straight to my cock. Mittens’ tail curls up and brushes along my cheek, then moves downward and starts parting my robe. It’s divinely soft. Rachmiel pours another couple fingers of whiskey. The room’s whirling.

  “You’ve gotta have fascinating stories, all these obscenely rich people around,” I say, sipping. “What’s the wildest thing you’ve done for a client?”

  Mittens runs a claw lightly along my chest. She’s wearing a harness with a loop in the collar. She let me lead her around by her leash earlier. “It had to do with a bucket of melted chocolate and a duck. I’m allergic. They paid to have a cleric on hand.”

  “I’m glad somebody was thinking of the duck.”

  She laughs throatily. It’s almost an echoing purr. “You’re funny. I like you.”

  “I heard the Minister of Construction’s quite the customer there. He’s not the only one, is he.”

  Hiroi snorts. She shifts closer. “Not at all. The Senior Justicar comes by most weeks, too. Although you’ll have to ask Rus. He’s the favorite. In fact, he’s going to the Gala in a few weeks.”

  “Is that true, Rus?” I ask.

  He’s railing Lucy against the couch, tugging her hair. Her voluptuous tits are out and proud, to no one’s disappointment. She’s a screamer, as is the couch. Earlier, she had me show him an illusion of her husband, and… now I see why.

  “I can’t betray the confidence of my clients. But Minister Miyake offered to bring me as a plus one,” he pants, not breaking stride. His high-elven voice is buttery. “I look forward to seeing you both there.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” Lucy whimpers into the couch. I send my vibrating arcane hand over. She eagerly accepts.

  “You have to know word gets around about these things,” I say.

  “Well… he sees me exclusively,” Rus says. “In fact, he brought me to the dungeon underneath the Palace. He oversaw the construction.”

  “A sex dungeon?” I ask.

  “Something like that,” he says. “I was forbidden from many of the rooms. I can only imagine the secrets they keep down there.”

  I pause. A dungeon underneath the Palace sounds like a dark and safe resting place for vampires. Is that where Felicia’s hiding at night? It’s hard putting it all together right now, considering what Mittens is doing. Lucy’s watching intently.

  “I’ve not met him yet,” I gasp. Hiroi moves downward, too. “What’s he like?”

  “Beautiful. Charming. Insufferable,” Rus says. “He can be extremely convincing. As for being good at his job? Who can say? He spends an awful lot of time with me.”

  Is Ichiro a vampire, too? Lucy screeches something incoherent, gripping the couch. I think that’s six, by my last count. Genk lumbers by with Fion, the bright red birdfolk, and everyone stares.

  “And what about the Senior Justicar?” I ask. “What’s his dirty secret?”

  Rus laughs, grunting. “He wants himself, most times. But sometimes he wants someone named Selena.”

  I blink. “I know you said something important, but I’m sorry – he fucks himself?”

  “You did last night,” Deach says from another couch. She's completely naked, drink in hand as a dark-skinned efreetin, her short, flaming red hair wisping. Jingles is next to her, pecking at fancy cheese and crackers and sipping a daiquiri through a curly straw. They’re wearing a set of mismatched, frilly lingerie, top and bottom.

  “I’ll be the first to admit it. You can’t shame me with that,” I throw back. I groan, touching the back of Hiroi’s throat. Deach smirks into her drink, watching me intently like she's picturing joining.

  The seashell on the table vibrates.

  Gods fucking damnit. Lucy whimpers when I send my arcane hand to fetch it. I return it once I’m done. “We’ve really gotta talk about your timing,” I say into the shell. Mittens and Hiroi are making out with me between them. Sentences are becoming an afterthought.

  Sorry, Erson says with a sigh. What’s this about you selling a ship?

  “I sold a ship.”

  You sold our best ship.

  I pause, eyes rolling back. I brace an arm against the back of the couch. “Sorry, what was that?”

  I said, you sold our best ship.

  “Well, I had good reason.” I pause, gasping. “Hang on.” A few moments later, Hiroi helps Mittens clean her fur. “Get started on a new one. It was starting to stink anyway,” I pant into the shell.

  Because you sank it.

  “And I’d happily do it again. I don’t like your tone here, Walstad.”

  There’s a pause. Alright. I’ll head up there and get it transferred over. Warchief.

  “Lovely. It’s always nice hearing from you.”

  We wind down and laze around the sitting area, cooling off and chatting. Lucy falls asleep drooling on the couch. Genk brings her a blanket and pillow. Finally, the workers leave with 1,000 gold in tips. Rachmiel cleans up and then dutifully deposits me on my bed and exits.

  I snap my fingers, and my pick appears. I finger some chords on my mandolin and make myself grasp a connection. I sing quietly:

  On this pleasurable night of getting frisky

  I’ve just one thing to ask of you

  Right here, right now, out of view

  Light Daddy, please get rid of the whiskey

  With a flash of cold fire, the alcohol dries up. It almost hurts. I heave, my chest stuttering. I’m suddenly painfully aware. My throat clenches. Tears leak out. A ripple stirs across the surface of the pool in my head. I hate this.

  A moment later, Whiskey kneads and curls up on my chest.

  Goodnight, human.

  “Is sleeping with me gonna be a regular thing?” I ask.

  You’re the comfiest. And you smell like Light Daddy. He said you need to sleep better.

  They’re not wrong. More whiskey would certainly help. I had so much confidence in quitting when I left the Ronchellard estate. Why do I keep throwing it away?

  “What else did the Light Daddy say?”

  That you’re hurt.

  My throat wells. They begin purring. I roll onto my side, hugging them close.

  But I was comfy!... Oh. Okay.

  And I fall into deep, dreamless sleep.

  The next morning, I wake to half a dead rat in my bed. I've not a single clue where Whiskey got it. Sven disposes of it with his shortsword, and Deach thanklessly feeds Whiskey. I wrangle Whiskey into a harness and return to the bank. With the last of the free coin the Guild gave me, I purchase the Fuzzy Back, and all its workers’ secrets with it.