The streets of Novo Mynsk had transformed. Gone were the fine window displays, the vegetable and fruit carts, the gilded carriages and pure white valkryfs. Gone were the families who strolled around in fine furs, the ring-studded merchants who rushed about their business. It was as though the city had donned a mask of its own, replacing its idyllic daytime façade with a dark and dangerous nighttime act.
Torches blazed in the streets, casting flickering shadows on groups of lurkers and revelers. The small pubs and cramped inns in the dark alleyways flared with life, roaring with bawdy singing and laughter. The scents of smoke and alcohol hung thick in the air.
Ana stayed close behind Ramson, clutching her fur cloak tight to her chest. She’d switched her rucksack for a refined purse, in which she carried all of her sketches. They were the only reminder of the life she’d had, and she had the irrational fear that if she lost them, she would lose her past.
She was grateful they had put on their masks before leaving their tavern. Women in strange animal masks and lurid gowns strolled dangerously close to her and Ramson, smiling and purring in their direction. Sallow-faced men with daggers glinting at their belts flashed their gold teeth as they waved their hands at her in salutation.
It felt as though she had stepped into a surreal underground world that was nothing like the Cyrilia she had known her entire life.
Ramson dipped his head to her, and his voice was husky when he murmured in her ear. “The Playpen is ostensibly a club with Affinite entertainers. But like most aspects of this world, it isn’t what it appears to be. Merchants are known to purchase Affinite employment contracts in the back rooms.”
The words haunted her as they wove through the laughing crowds, toward a club that should never have existed in the first place.
Where had it all gone wrong? She remembered, toward the later years of Papa’s life, how he had grown weak and frail; how his judgment and memory had suffered from blinding, fever-induced rages; how his moments of lucidity had become sparser and sparser throughout the years.
Yet another memory gripped her. Papa, turning away from her as she begged him not to let Sadov take her again. We will take measures to cure your condition. It is…for your own good.
Ramson’s hand brushed her shoulder and she jumped, her thoughts dispersing. They were in the middle of a crowded street. People pushed past her, staggering and shouting in their drunkenness, bottles of liquor flashing in the torchlight.
Ahead of them was the most brightly lit building on the street. It was built in the fashion of a Cyrilian cathedral, domes tapering into sharp spires that loomed into the night sky. Yet instead of the white marble walls and stained-glass windows depicting Deys’krug, the exterior had been built in cheap red-brown bricks and the windows were painted with figures of women twisting in grotesque dance moves—a farcical replica of a revered, holy building.
Ana realized that while she had been staring in disgust at the pub before them, Ramson, too, had not moved. He stared up at the tavern, his outline rigid. With his mask on, he felt like a stranger rather than the young crime lord she had partnered with over the past week.
He turned to her, his quick hazel eyes finding hers. There was no humor to his tone as he said, “Welcome to the Playpen.” Ramson’s voice took on a new layer of urgency as he repeated, “Stay close to me.”
Ana did her best as they stepped through the polished mahogany doors. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she began to make out the silhouettes of women splayed on love seats or slouched over bars, crooning words in their patrons’ ears. Candles flickered in magenta casings, casting a seductive hue around the interior of the tavern.
Were all the girls here Affinites? How many had been brought here from a foreign land with the promise of opportunity, and became indentured to this vile place?
Ramson wound his way through a maze of curved archways with beaded curtains until, at last, they reached a foyer with another set of mahogany doors. Two women were perched on a red settee, both wearing black masks with feline features and very little else. Their eyes drifted to Ramson.
One stood, smiling, and sashayed over. Ana noticed that she had whiskers painted on her cheeks, and