“I’m sorry, the Undercity?”
Robin refilled my cup, still in midair, with the last of the coffee. “Where else would a wanted satyr live, Miss Appletree?”
The glamour Robin constructed for me was amazingly well-done.
I touched my arm, running a finger along the smooth silver scales, each one no bigger than a baby’s fingernail.
My skin not only looked wet, it felt wet; I was perfectly dry, and yet I felt the water beading around my fingers and sliding down my arm.
It had taken all day to make, along with procuring a new fake ID, the contact poison I’d approved of, and finding a universal tracking chip that I’d be able to pop into his phone.
A nereid stared back at me in the bathroom mirror.
My cheekbones were higher, and the hollows of my cheeks thinner; long, pale blue hair hung down my back, and my skin was silver all over. I carefully painted my lips with cerulean lipstick, then unscrewed the tiny vial Robin had procured for me.
It was full of a colorless, odorless clear liquid with a gluey consistency.
I dipped in a small brush and began painting over the lipstick at the edges of my mouth. I was careful not to get too close to the soft skin inside my lips; Robin had stressed how important it was that I not lick or bite my lips while it was on.
Still, he’d given me a small paper soaked in a neutralizing solution, just in case.
The contact poison on my lips dried down, becoming nearly invisible. In the Undercity, where the light was uncertain at best, Calder wouldn’t notice a thing.
My skirt barely covered my ass cheeks and the neckline dipped down to my belly button, but when I came downstairs, Sisse made a sound of approval.
“Perfect, he’ll lose his mind. I’m so glad you’re staying with us. Trying to convince Robin to dress up is a nightmare. He says the sequins itch too much.”
“I mean, he’s not wrong.” I smoothed the silver sequins of the dress, trying not to feel uncomfortable. Dressing for a club was one thing. Dressing as a prostitute was another; hopefully nobody tried to get handsy.
At the very least, I had the ring and the poison, and Robin would be waiting for me by the entrance, disguised as an old fachan— and my pimp.
He’d left the chip and ID on the table. I looked at my nereid-disguised face on the card, memorizing my new name: Vanora Pearlwave.
The tiny chip went into a tiny pocket inside my dress, right over my heart. The bug went in as well, and I adjusted the heavy strands of pearls around my neck, disguising the faint bulge.
“I can’t say I feel classy,” I said sourly, practicing walking on the ultra-high platform shoes the closet had given me. I’d told it I wanted to look like a ‘nereid hooker’ and by the Branches, had it provided. The soles of my shoes were full of water, with glittery plastic fish floating inside them. “But I was the one who suggested it, after all.”
“It was an excellent idea, Briallen.” Sisse shrugged. “You know how satyrs are.”
I did, all too well. All satyrs were horny bastards, but if they had a particular fetish… well, they’d go through hell and high water, literally, to get ahold of it. I was counting on Calder practically going brain dead at the sight of a buyable nereid in the Undercity.
Then the poison would do its work, and I’d do mine.
A faint scratching caught my ears, and Robin came limping into the kitchen, several feet shorter than usual and with a face like a squashed potato. To complete his fachan disguise, he’d pulled several threadbare blankets and cloaked over his hunched shoulders, hiding most of the grotesquerie of his false body.
His eyes were beady and dark as he looked up at me. It was impossible to tell it was Robin under the glamour.
“Like it?” I asked, striking an exaggerated pose and dripping nonexistent water everywhere.
The fachan coughed. “I prefer your face,” he said in a voice like rusty gears grating against each other.
I let my arms relax to my sides, looking away so I wouldn’t blush blue. Robin studied the ceiling with his beady eyes.
Sisse sighed. “Get out of here.”
13
Sobek Street was the one part of Avilion any self-respecting dryad avoided.
I’d never thought I’d find myself walking it dressed like a nereid hooker, accompanied by what seemed to be a decrepit bag-lady of a fachan.
Robin clutched both a dented pail and a spiked