She approached Amalie in the dressing room, using the shared tip as a pretext to start up a conversation.

The blonde glanced up as Serephone approached. “How did your night go?”

Sere held out the small envelope. “He said he put in enough to share.”

Amalie’s eyes widened. “He didn’t tell me—you could have kept the whole thing, you know.”

Why would she do that? “Not my style.”

Blue eyes regarded her thoughtfully before Amalie withdrew two slips of paper. Serephone had never seen a bank note before coming to Seattle. She glanced at the note over Amalie’s shoulder, first registering the name, Etienne Rosemont—and then the amount. She blinked. If she didn’t despise these kinds of men, she’d be tempted to make this thing a semi-permanent career. A woman could work a place like this, cultivate regular patrons, and leave in five years with enough to—

Serephone mentally slapped herself out of those thoughts, annoyed. She wasn’t here to work, though the momentary sight of more money than she’d ever had was a legitimate distraction.

Amalie handed her one of the notes. “What bank are you set up with?”

Serephone mentioned the name, and Amalie’s nose wrinkled. “Only shop clerks use that bank. Here, I’ll write down the address to the one I use. I run into patrons all the time—and their wives.” Her grin was wolfish. “You can get invitations to outside events sometimes—there’s a cafe nearby as well with outdoor seating. Sit for a few hours during the afternoon and just see what happens.”

“Interesting business here. In my town, they snatch girls for free. They ever wind up here?”

Amalie’s eyes widened and she glanced around. But most of the women were changing into street clothing and washing their faces, wanting to get the hell out and go home to bed. A few upgraded their attire. Sere figured they had extra evening appointments.

“Don’t talk about that here,” Amalie said, lowering her voice. “Or any other club with this level of clientele. That’s the kind of thing the patrons prefer not get bandied about as shop gossip.”

Serephone forced the muscles of her face to relax into idle curiosity. “Do the men here…order girls? I read a book once—”

Amalie stood. “Just hope you’re never ordered. The clients aren’t human, and those girls never come back.”

“Are they eaten or something?” Sere’s tone was dry, but her amusement evaporated when Amalie just stared at her.

“Thanks for splitting the tip,” the woman said instead of answering. “If you ever need another girl for a duo job…well. Baby steps.”

“Wait—I want to ask you something else, too.” She bent over the dressing table and carefully traced a glyph onto the back of her bank note. “Have you ever seen this?”

Amalie frowned, studying it. “It looks like a Line symbol. A—” she stopped talking. “Why would you—you know what? Never mind. I don’t want to know why you would want to get caught up with one of them.”

Serephone fluttered her lashes—she’d been practicing that, too. “Oh, I just saw it on a person on the street and wanted to know who the artist was. I’d love to get a tattoo like that.”

Amalie shook her head, gathering up her bag. “That’s not that kind of tattoo. Besides, they don’t let you mark your skin here. And if you were ever marked with one of those—well, you wouldn’t be working here anymore.”

Serephone walked back to her efficiency, brushing off the implications that she would ever go into escort service. She snorted. Persia would double over with laughter. Serephone—needing a girl for a duo job.

The evening had been productive, though, and she was satisfied. People lived where they banked, right? So, she’d change, go to this bank in the morning and watch who went in and out. Add to her list of possible clients. Men with the inclination to dabble in unwilling flesh, and the money to hire mercenaries to execute operations. And, she realized, enough clout that law enforcement would look the other way. Constables weren’t above bribes, especially these city folks.

She picked up her pace, heart racing from the thrill of starting her hunt for real. In her mind was the magical glyph branded on the prisoner’s hand. She had that, and now she knew where a rich man might bank—and even stroll down the street to eat.

* * *

The bank was a vintage three story building made of large blocks of grey stone. Wide steps led to the carved wood double doors and a simple, polished steel sign said Bank of Seattle. It sat on the corner of the block with swatches of green around the exterior, the kind of wasteful landscaping that indicated wealth and prestige. Even in her hometown she’d heard news of water rationing, and protests from angry middle class citizens in council hall who resented being reminded that their existence inside a Dome was still precarious. But Sere supposed if one was rich enough, the permits to use water for decorative purposes were easy enough to come by.

Inside the bank, floors were polished concrete with veins of quartz. Pristine white walls with tall, paned glass windows on either side let in natural light. Heavy golden ropes created lines to a long, marble topped counter. Clerks in white shirts or blues and smart navy jackets stood in front of a massive watercolor painting. Transactions were conducted by hand, and the low murmur of voices was unbroken by anything as uncouth as an angry customer or crying toddler. The only people in line were well dressed, with airs of well bred, business-like impatience.

Serephone was directed to a desk on the far side of the open room when she told the clerk she desired to open an account. The brief glance the woman gave her attire was irritating, but evidently her disguise held. Sere seated herself in front of a more richly uniformed employee, glad she’d spent some of her first weeks’ pay on better clothing—after realizing that what she’d packed would firmly pinpoint her as a small-town bumpkin. Exchanging her sturdy brown trousers, jacket and white shirts for long skirts, embroidered jackets and shirts obviously sewn to be worn with a corset had sucked.

The account was opened, her banknote deposited. Though the clerk said nothing, Serephone could tell from the brief flicker of his lashes that he recognized the payor on the check.

“Welcome to the Bank of Seattle, Ms. Kasabian. We treasure your business.”

His accent was funny, a nasal emphasis on the word treasure. She rose, the little silk wristlet containing her new blank checks and banking information in her hand, and left the building, making her way to the little cafe across the street.

Just as Amalie said, it boasted small round tables outdoors directly in line of sight of anyone walking down the block on either side of the street. She ordered a coffee and pastry, which was served in delicate white dishes not made from recycled or reclaimed plastics, and sat.

And waited.

And was about to give up on this being a useless waste of her time when she finally recognized a face. Etienne Rosemont. Serephone rose from her seat, leaving a coin for tip and casually strode down the street in time to intercept him. She saw from her peripheral vision the moment he recognized her. A slight pause in his step then small adjustment as he changed direction. She hoped the quality of her acting was good—she attempted to look surprised.

“The young woman from the club,” he said. He was dressed in daytime attire, slim trousers and a brown suit jacket, both pieces expertly tailored. A bronze cravat around his neck. His hair was pulled back from his face, exposing sharp cheekbones that reminded her of Cinvarra. Serephone’s eyes glanced off the small silver glyph revealed by his hairstyle.

“Mr. Rosemont,” she greeted. “Serephone.”

“Serephone? What an unusual name.”

“I’m told it’s a family name.”

“Oh?” His brow rose.

“My father left when I was young.” Her tone was short. He accepted the rebuff with grace.

“Now that I see you in the light…I’m almost certain I know your face.”

That was exactly what she wanted to hear. “No, really, I’ve never been outside my home town before.”

“And where did you say you were from?”

“Maddugton. Several hours travel on air bus. A short flight for a dragon, perhaps?”

“You know dragons, Serephone?” He sounded amused.

She stared at him, cool. “My mother recently married a dragon Lord—the master of the town I live in.”

“Ah. I see. Well, I won’t keep you on your business. Will I see you this evening?”

She smiled, lowering her lashes. “I believe so. Good day, sir.”

Serephone congratulated herself on conducting an entire conversation with a man without scowling or grunting at him, and walked down the block several feet, pausing causally, and then looking over her shoulder. Etienne was striding away, back towards her.

She turned and followed him, using bystanders to mask herself as often as possible should he happen to glance behind him. But he didn’t, and after two blocks he stopped, and stepped towards the street, lifting a hand in the air. She thought he was hailing a conveyance for hire, but the steam powered buggy was a sleek, polished thing with curtained windows and copper trim. On the side of the buggy was a familiar glyph, emblazoned in silver.

* * *

Running after a private steam buggy wouldn’t be a good idea. She was almost certain she could keep up, but in broad daylight, a well-dressed young woman with near shifter speed would bring her the kind of attention she didn’t need.

Serephone glanced around, saw a middle-aged woman passing by, pushing a baby carriage. “Excuse me, Ms.?”

The woman glanced at her, slowed. Serephone pointed at the buggy, talking rapidly. “Do you know what that symbol means? I’m new in town.”

The woman glanced at the buggy, turning a corner. “It looks fae. I don’t know what Line, though. Sorry.”

“No, thank you.”

Serephone contained her small grin of triumph, a hunting instinct jolting her heart rate. Fae? That was good, and bad. Good, because it was a solid lead and narrowed down her prey considerably. Bad…because fae. She didn’t imagine any non-human creature with the money and power to deal in human flesh trading would be an easy mark. If she was smart, she would wait until her mother and Maddugh arrived in the city and began making noise, trying to find her. She knew they were coming, of course. She was a little surprised they weren’t already here.

But now she needed a source of information. Like every child, she’d learned of the days in the past where people could sit down at electronic boxes and learn anything they wanted just by typing in commands. But those days were long gone. And she didn’t have the patience to wait until work this evening—not with the taste of the hunt in her mouth like the tang of blood.

So, a library it was.

* * *

“There’s a fee?” Serephone stared at the entrance clerk, disgusted. “I thought libraries were free.” Not that she’d ever been in a library. There was a shop in town boasting several shelves of books for borrow—after signing one’s name in blood. But there still wasn’t any charge.

The clerk stared down his nose. “No knowledge worth having is free, Ms. Libraries require funds to maintain operations.”

It had the sound of a well-rehearsed speech. “Is the fee refundable?”

“Of course not.”

What horseshit. Her spiders reacted to her irritation, swarming under her sleeves until she forced herself to calm. She was already on edge, and sometimes they reacted without her having to command them. That wasn’t a show she wanted to put on in broad daylight in front of humans. It would sure make it easier for her mother to find her, though.

Serephone paid the fee, filled out the application for a lending card and took the printed brochure explaining the rules. It was a damn good thing she’d decided to get a work permit rather than a visitor’s permit—she’d be broke by now if she hadn’t anticipated the hunt taking longer than a few days. She missed her sisters, and hoped her mother had made them stay put.

She used the research cards to find call numbers for the history of the city, current maps, books on fae and important citizens—and gossip magazines. Anyone rich, male, and fae, would possibly be in gossip rags. A shipment of them came to town once a month, which was how the local women stayed up to date on current fashions, and followed the doings of their favorite socialites.

It wasn’t long before she began coming across references to the fae. Rising from her seat at a long table, she approached the librarian. “Can you tell me where the fae districts are? The maps only tell me street names, there are no boundaries drawn.”

The bored woman glanced at her, and wrote something down. “You have the wrong map,” was the brief reply. “Here’s the call number for the census maps. They show district boundaries. They don’t call them that, though. The fae call them demesnes.”

“Thanks.”

Spreading the map out across her area of the table—ignoring the looks of those sitting near her, just let them say something—she read the key, identifying the color assigned to fae districts, and hunted for her current position, marking it with a bit of balled up paper. Then she plotted her way to the first of the fae areas, grimacing when she realized the distance. It wasn’t a trip she’d care to make on foot, so she’d fork up the coin for a public conveyance. The fae demesne encompassed six city blocks and their own park of considerable size. Their territory backed against a side of the Dome, a position she recognized distantly as being defensive. Enemies would never be able to cut them off on all sides…but did that mean they had a backdoor out of the Dome?

After an hour of reading and sitting still, tiredness began to slow her thinking. For the sake of practicality, she choose a few of the books to borrow and made notes of the others, putting them away. She had several scraps of notes and a general direction to aim her hunt. But it wouldn’t be today. She needed sleep, and food—and she had to be alert for work in the evening.

There was more than one lead to chase down.