His father had contacts. Amnan also had contacts.

Maddugh didn’t know about the permanent pass he’d acquired years ago. The Lord and King of Coal didn’t need to know everything. Especially not the extent of Amnan’s personal network. Not that he didn’t trust his father, or would ever betray him—but every son needed assets…just in case. Besides, if he ever had to utilize his network on his father’s behalf, Maddugh would have plausible deniability.

The clerk in the crowded intake office stared up at Amnan with the kind of overeducated haughtiness that told him the man, for all his fine schooling, was a fool. Because only a fool would mistake Amnan for prey.

“I do apologize,” the clerk said. He wore prissy, little, round spectacles, the copper color nearly pink, and a matching tie around his neck. His vest was just as fussy, brown and pink stripes and the sleeves of his white shirt perfectly starched. Hair an indeterminate shade between blond and brown—a unique shade to human mutts—was slicked back, the ends perfectly trimmed. Every item on the desk was in its place, and not even a stray scrap of paper or dust marred the surface.

This was a human, who took his job far too seriously.

Amnan smiled, allowing his true nature to slip through his eyes just a bit. He leaned forward, and brushed some imaginary lint off the man’s shoulder. “Tell Richardson that Amnan is requesting access. He will understand.”

The clerk paused, then cleared his throat. “R-Richardson?”

“Richardson.”

The man rose from his desk and hurried through a door. Amnan heard a loud sigh behind him and turned, pinning the portly woman with a stare. She stiffened, then huffed, avoiding his eyes, and he turned back around. Waiting in line was undignified, but he’d chosen to stay as low profile as possible—which necessitated waiting in line to request access to immigration records rather than using the entry reserved for men of stature. If he used that door, everyone would know he was in town—not just Richardson.

The clerk returned several moments later with his superior. “Ah, Amnan, good to see you.”

Richardson’s dress was less fussy than that of his underling, the taste higher quality. A dark grey suit, plain brown vest underneath, and hair allowed to rest naturally on his head, though it was expensively cut.

Richardson was head of the entire Office of Immigration, and in charge of processing applicants and new arrivals to the city. Serephone would have had to apply for entry through this office—and her paperwork would show what type of permit she’d been given, and where she’d been assigned work.

The gate was opened and Amnan ushered behind the counter. He felt the baleful stares on the back of his neck and suppressed the childish instinct to turn around and hiss a flame at them all.

Richardson clapped him on the back. “Jackson tells me you need some information,” he said as the two exited the front office into the main building.

Like most government buildings it was squat, and bland, and lacked windows. The hallways were too narrow and poorly lit—the city government preferred to spend funds planting tulips in public parks.

“Yes. A young woman was recently approved for entry.” He assumed she’d come in legally. Serephone might be crafty, and perhaps dangerous—but he didn’t think she yet had the skills or knowledge to slip undetected into a Dome. “My sister. I’d like to see her file.”

The human eyed him. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“Her mother recently wed my father. She decided to come to the city for an adventure without telling her mother. I promised I would make sure the girl was unharmed.” Amnan’s brow creased mournfully. “My father’s honeymoon period is dependent on my success.”

Richardson laughed. “Ah, headstrong, young women. That should be simple enough. Give me a moment to pull her file. Her name?”

“Serephone Kasabian.”

Richardson escorted him to an empty office and excused himself to go pull the file. It was only ten minutes, and his contact returned with a thin brown folder.

“Everything appears to be in order—the girl applied four weeks ago, and all her paperwork was in order. She is in compliance with all Dome norms as of this time.”

“Thank you for your assistance. My family will not forget.”

He waited until he’d cleared the building before pulling the papers out of the thin envelope and scanned the contents. Stared at the line detailing her place of employment, shock and amusement warring for dominance. And a creeping admiration, because she’d managed to land herself in the one place, where she was almost guaranteed to be in the middle of a hub of unsavory gossip.

A goddamn licensed brothel.

* * *

Serephone scanned the crowd from her spot out of the way. Her place of employment was the same, and different, from Stella’s. The entertainment was the same, if classed up a bit with girls, who were fresh faced, professionally trained, and better…dressed. The decor was steel grays and blues with hints of platinum, plenty of private viewing rooms above and couches below for those who couldn’t afford their own boxes—and women.

Her job was to wait hand and foot on the downstairs patrons. Putting a new girl in a VIP room was unheard of—when she’d inquired—and hosting was for the mature ladies. But she was too pretty to be stuck in the back washing dishes, so they’d given her a uniform and trained her to smile elegantly and serve drinks.

She glanced down at her dress, suppressing her distaste. At least it was a deep sapphire blue and not pink. But the full skirts were cut at mid-thigh in the front, and her corset was more of a half corset. She was allowed a little velvet jacket, because evidently sticking one's boobs in a man’s face when bending over to serve his drink was both tacky and forbidden unless he’d paid for the privilege.

“A touch of modesty is just the thing, darling,” her supervisor had told her. A slick, well-coiffed woman likely around her mother’s age, but with the skin of someone, who’d never once left the Dome. “But we’ll have to work on your demeanor. This isn’t the appropriate club for dark and broody.”

So, Serephone wound up practicing her smile for two hours before she was even allowed on the floor, and then a demure dip of her lashes followed by a hair flick when turning. High heels had been easy enough to master—she already possessed both strength and balance. It was the deliberate hip thrusting from side to side that tripped her up, until she’d learned to simply walk to the beat of the music.

But she was becoming impatient. Her original plan had been to skip out on the job, until it occurred to her that this kind of establishment would traffic gossip and information as well as flesh and fine wines. There were all kinds of ways to execute a hunt. And the reality was she needed information more than she needed to be aimlessly prowling the streets.

One of the experienced girls approached Sere in between music sets. Dancers in expensive lingerie and glittering jewels performed sleek, sensual numbers on a small, round stage. No full nudity—that was saved for elite clientele. If a patron wanted a common stripper, he could visit one of the lower-class districts.

“One of my customers is asking about you,” Amalie whispered in Sere’s ear. The girl’s golden hair was slicked in a classic chignon and she wore the same provocatively coy dress as Serephone, but in white to suit her fair coloring.

“Why?” Serephone asked, irritated. She had enough to do keeping up with her own section. This brief minute of rest was the first she’d gotten in hours. If they didn’t want drinks, they wanted finger foods. Waiters served dinner, but the girls were expected to pass out tidbits—and feed a patron if he so desired. Which meant she’d spent an hour having her hands done as well, and been told in no uncertain terms that she might be young, pretty and ‘innocent’, but she still had the palms of a country wench.

“He likes new faces—especially brunettes,” Amalie said. “Don’t worry about it. If I don’t bring you, he’ll just move to your section. We’ll split the tip?”

“That’s fair.”

Amalie nodded, blue eyes relieved. Then they narrowed, shrewd. “Don’t try and sound too polished, if you know what I mean? He likes them fresh from the farm.”

“It’s a mine, technically.”

“Even better. He can imagine you in a bath, washing away all the black sludge to reveal soft, white flesh underneath.”

Serephone would never understand men or their fantasies, but she understood they existed, and were big business. That was enough. Skimming a critical eye over her section to ensure no one was beckoning for her, she slinked after Amalie. They approached a smaller couch with a round table in front, and a man reclining with a companion at his side.

“There aren’t many clubs here that cater to discriminating clientele,” he said, not looking at Serephone. “So, I am able to spot a new face right away.”

She studied him since he wasn’t looking at her. The kind of lean body coupled with too smooth skin and manicured hands that spoke of someone whose physique didn’t come from honest work but a hot house fitness salon. She’d seen his type pass through town before—usually younger sons seeking adventure or a few days slumming it in a quaint town while journeying to California. Since its annexation by the Aztecs, leaving only the San Diego and San Francisco Domes as American property per the terms of the treaty years ago, it was considered the new, wild west.

He turned his head finally and looked at her. Serephone bowed as she’d been taught, in the Oriental style, her feet in a ballerina’s third position—all the better to show off legs shown to advantage by the high heels.

She’d been told she was just a cocktail waitress. But the emphasis on her value as a fresh, country bumpkin alluded to the truth. Her employer was simply waiting for the right offer—and Serephone, in the meantime, was on full display. She figured after three or four weeks of softening her up, the club mistress would approach her with the real deal.

“I’m new in town,” she said, voice soft, eyes lidded because she hadn’t quite mastered the insipid look.

“You look familiar. Your face—I’ve seen it before.”

It could be a line, or it could be a clue. It hadn’t occurred to her until that moment that her face might be her best tool to seek out Ruthus’ patron. Ma had assumed the miscreants had flashed pictures of her and her sisters to shop them around. If he’d toured the upper-end clubs in order to secure a patron in advance—the ‘right’ patron might very well have seen her before. In a photo. And one of those patrons would be Ruthus’ backer.

“Maybe I look like someone you used to know.”

“I don’t think so.” He glanced at Amalie, and flicked a finger, dismissing her. “Have you been fully trained?”

Her neck stiffened from the emphasis on the last words. “Still learning the floor,” she said, struggling to keep the growl out of her voice. She was just a shitty actress.

“Well, take my drink order.”

She smiled, hiding a desire to introduce him to her spiders, and fetched his drink like a good girl. Another music set began, a dark-skinned dancer with something sparkling studded in her tight curls, took the stage to perform. Serephone spent the next hour running between her section and Amalie’s patron, glad that at least the men were apparently well-bred enough not to pat asses or try and cop boob feels.

She’d been twelve the first time she’d had to slice a man for trying to stick his hand up her skirt—while his eyes were on Persia as well. Ma had been furious. They’d been tall for their age, and Persia had talked her into putting on makeup. Not that it made them look any older, but she knew now that it made them look appealing to a particular kind of predator. The ruckus after that had been real. Between the man almost bleeding out on Stella’s floor, Ma threatening to have the place put out of business for allowing underage girls to sneak in, and the sheriff trying to win Ma’s favor by fining Stella double—Serephone grimaced, banishing the memory.

By the time the evening was over, and her feet were cursing gutter profanity at her, she’d stopped struggling to pretend to be anything other than disdainful of her customers, and couldn’t even fake the start of a smile.

Amalie’s patron looked at her, amusement on his face, and beckoned. Serephone clomped over, jaw stiff. “Yes?”

The music shifted to a soft, instrumental number, lights transitioning from the dark and exotic to a subtle glow imitating the approach of dawn—a visual cue for guests to get the fuck out and go home.

After tipping their servers.

She stared at him. He’d better tip his server.

The man wasn’t stupid. “Thank you for indulging me—new things are always a treat in a world gone so blah lately.” He tapped a finger on a small purple envelope. “I know you’ll share it with my Amalie—there is extra.”

Patrons didn’t usually discuss tips so freely. Either he was baseborn, or too rich to care about aping stupid manners that stated the wealthy class had to pretend money bloomed in rose gardens and just, lo and behold, appeared when needed.

“Thank you,” she said.

He rose, picking up dark gloves from his seat. “I believe I know where I’ve seen your face before. I hope I’ll see you again this evening.”

Serephone didn’t follow him because he left with a clear air of dismissal—and she’d rather corner him and pound out any information while her supervisor wasn’t looking. He would definitely be seeing her tonight.