a silver needle into my palm, and offered it to him.
"What's this?"
"A needle."
"What should I do with it?"
He'd walked right into it. Too easy. "Please use it to pop your head. It's obscuring my view of the room."
The doors of the observation deck opened and two men entered. The one on the left towered over his buddy. Tall, large, his hair cropped so close it was merely stubble on his large scalp, he held himself ramrod straight. He wore black pants, huge combat boots, and nothing else.
Twisted swirls of tribal tattoos, precise and coal black as if painted in pitch, spiraled up his arms, stained his chest, and climbed up his back over his neck. A lot of elaborate ink.
Interesting that it would all be the same color.
Beside him walked a man with hair so blond, it resembled a lemon. Cut even with the corner of his jaw, it flared around his narrow face in a disorganized mess. It was an odd haircut for a man but he somehow pulled it off without looking too feminine.
"And here they are." Saiman leaned back casually.
"Reapers?" I murmured.
"Yes. The dark brute uses the stage name 'Cesare.' The blond is Mart."
"What are their real names?" If anyone knew, Saiman would.
"I have no idea." Saiman sipped his cognac. "And that bothers me."
The Reapers zeroed in on our table.
"Anything in particular I'm looking for?"
"I want to know if they're human."
I watched Mart. Lean, bordering on thin, he wore a long gray trench coat he left hanging open. Under it was what could only be described as a cat burglar suit: black and skin-tight over his chest, it hugged his legs before disappearing into soft black boots. If it wasn't for the tightness of the suit, I would've missed the minute tensing of his leg muscles. He leapt and landed in a light crouch on our table.
Excellent balance - didn't slide at all when he jumped, landed on his toes, the table barely moved.
Mart looked straight ahead, presenting me with a carved profile. Very light eyes, blue, rimmed in darker gray, but undeniably human. Good bone structure, masculine, without obvious weakness. Compact frame, narrow, corded with lean muscle. Long limbs, providing for good reach. No odd scent. Looked human to me, but I'd never known Saiman to be wrong. Something had to have given him pause, but what?
When in doubt, poke the beehive with a stick to see if anything interesting flies out. I clapped my hands. "I had no idea Pit teams had such pretty cheerleaders. Can you do it again, but with more spirit this time?"
Mart turned to me and stared, unblinking. It was like looking into the eyes of a hawk: distance and the promise of sudden death.
I pretended to think and snapped my fingers. "I know what's missing. The pom-poms!"
No reaction. He knew I had insulted him, but he wasn't sure exactly how.
Saiman chuckled.
Mart still stared at me. His skin was perfect. Too perfect. No scratches. No cuts. No imperfections, no pimples, no blackheads. Like alabaster polished to light gloss.
"What brings you to our table, gentlemen?" Saiman's voice was relaxed. Not a shadow of anxiety. I had to give it to him - Saiman had balls.
The tattooed man crossed his arms. His frame was lanky, his limbs very long in proportion to his body. Definition showed on his arms, but his muscle was long rather than thick. He fixed Saiman with an unblinking stare.
"You will lose." He pronounced the words very distinctly, his deep voice tinted with an accent I couldn't place.
I reached over slowly to touch Mart's face. He grabbed my hand. I barely saw his hand move and then my fingers were clamped in his. Grip like a steel vise. Fast, too. Possibly faster than me. This should be interesting. I kept my fingers limp. "Oh, you're strong." He was strong.
He also left himself wide open. I wondered if he would be fast enough to block a champagne glass if I broke it and shoved it into his throat. That would be a very tempting theory to test.
"Mart!" Saiman's voice snapped like a whip. "You break her, you buy her."
Mart swiveled his head toward him. It was a very odd gesture: only his head turned. Like an owl. Or possibly a cat. He released my fingers. He had probably discounted me because I was a woman in a brightly colored dress.
A dark-haired woman entered the deck. She was young, barely eighteen if that. Her features would've made her at home on