Page 62 of Mistress of Lies
But Shan turned none away, not even those who didn’t bring forth any useful information. She bought their loyalty with a little bit of kindness and a sympathetic ear. They were used to being overlooked, ignored and forgotten. But for a little respect, she earned their trust—and the promise to send word through the normal channels if something did come up.
If there was any real lead. She might not be a member of the Guard, and to most of them she wasn’t even a Blood Worker, but all of them knew that information was power. And in this case, safety.
Even if they did know something, most of them would never go to the Blood Workers and Shan didn’t blame them for that. The Eternal King wanted this murderer caught, but not for the safety of the Unblooded. It was for the affront to his rules, for the shame of this happening under his watch, for the unrest it was causing.
But she would see these people protected.
After a few hours her head was swimming with information, her heart heavy with their fears. It was still a little too early for her to slip out without raising suspicion, even though all her contacts had come to her. Even though it was unlikely that one of the nobles would notice a worker leaving early. So, she continued to work, keeping one eye on her brother as he charmed his way through the night.
Shan might have been the mastermind of their schemes, but Anton had his own brilliance about him. He could twist a conversation round and round, leading people to the very thing they did not wish to talk about, but in such a way that it seemed natural. And since Sir LeClaire was nothing more than an Unblooded drunkard and gambler, they never suspected him of anything—they bragged and gossiped around him like he was a simpleton, never realizing that they were being used.
It wasn’t the path she would have taken, but it was effective, and it brought Anton a wealth of information that Shan could never have earned.
She was turning away from his vingt-et-un table after he had pulled another winning hand—what luck!—when she was grabbed by the wrist, pulled off the floor and shoved against the wall.
Her fingers clenched around the empty tray, an instinctive need for her claws. Tilting her head up, she prepared to chastise the patron for breaking the rules, but the words died on her lips as she stared into a pair of familiar dark eyes.
“Shan?” Isaac breathed, so low and quiet that she wasn’t sure she heard it at all.
Her heart thudded in her chest—he wasn’t supposed to be here, and, even worse, he wasn’t supposed to recognize her. Wrenching her arm away from him, she whispered, “Not here.” She glanced pointedly over to the servants’ corridors that led back to the washrooms. Isaac’s gaze flickered back and forth, and he nodded.
“I’ll be right back with your wine, sir,” Shan said loudly, and Isaac smiled slightly. Tucking the tray against her chest, she moved through the crowds, but she could still feel his eyes on her. She didn’t look back, despite the urge to. Tonight, she was just a plain working-class woman, and he was one of them.
Blood and steel, she hadn’t even realized he frequented the Den. He had never shown interest in gambling when they were young. When had that changed? And worse, why hadn’t she realized it? Despite everything—maybe because of everything—she should have kept better track of him, of what he was doing without her.
He was the Royal Blood Worker, after all.
Ducking into the corridor, she pressed against the wall, taking deep, steadying breaths. Moments later Isaac rounded the corner, as if he were headed to the washroom, but Shan grabbed him and shoved him into the storeroom, closing and locking the door behind them.
For a minute they simply stared at each other in the dim glow of the witch light, Isaac’s eyes roaming all over her outfit, but Shan was more focused on the bags under his eyes, on the smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol floating from him. On every bit of him that looked frayed.
Isaac was the first to speak, arching an eyebrow at her. “If you wanted my attention, you have it.”
Shan ignored his gibe. “How did you know it was me?”
His brow furrowed. “What? Did you think a bit of makeup and a short dress would do that much? I’d recognize you anywhere, Shan.”
She closed her eyes for just a moment, letting his words sink in. It was only natural that he would—they were imprinted on each other, after all. Even after all this time, after everything. He had always seen her, and she couldn’t hide from him now. “I’m working, Isaac.”
“I hadn’t realized the LeClaire fortune had fallen quite this far.”
Rolling her eyes, Shan dropped the tray and perched on a pile of boxes. “Not like that.”
His eyes had fallen to her chest as soon as she removed the tray, and it only took a second for him to make the connection, his mouth popping in a soft oooh. “Your power isn’t in money or name,” he said, reaching out to brush his fingers against her necklace. “But in something even less tangible.”
“But far more useful,” Shan said, smiling because she couldn’t help it. She was proud of everything she had done, all that she had created, and even though Isaac had left her, she needed him to see it. To understand everything she had done and become.
And be proud.
When his eyes lit up, the haze of alcohol fading just a bit, she felt her heart soar.
“You are utterly, amazingly, wonderfully brilliant,” he said, locking eyes with her. “You’re the Sparrow.”
She knew it was foolish—beyond foolish—for him to know, but she could not stop herself. Not with the way he was looking at her. “I see you’ve heard of me.”
“Every information broker in Aeravin has,” Isaac said. “But I don’t think anyone suspects someone so young.” He laughed, catching her by the hand and spinning her around, taking in her costume once more. “And no one recognizes you?”
“People see what they want to see,” Shan said with a shrug. “They see the color of my skin, my outfit, my features—and they draw their own conclusions.”