## Leslie POV Like usual, I found Ricochet sitting alone, nursing a whiskey. The half-empty bottle and impressive pile of cigarette stubs by his side said he’d been there awhile already, but you wouldn’t have known it just by seeing him; he always looked the same kind of listless, somehow, no matter how long he’d sat there. Like he was just as happy to be in any one place as any other. But he seemed engaged enough in the show, at least. Lenny and the rest of his entourage were nearby somewhere, too, I knew — still a bit too close at hand for comfort — but with the cover of music and crowd chatter, this could be private enough. As Ricochet told it, this was the best he could do to get some alone time. I knew the feeling. At first, I really hadn’t thought too much of Jonny’s dream — I certainly hadn’t known what to say to him about it when he so awkwardly brought it up mid-conversation on that car ride. But the question had eaten at me since. Jonny’s magic was quite real; his dreams did, sometimes, come true. And if this one was going to, I ought to be worried… because none of our at-present threats were targeting *me*, as far as I knew, but if that meant that this was a *new* threat, well. There was only one obvious thing that could be. And on that matter, some due diligence on my end was well overdue. I could admit that much. So I needed information from Hell, and I couldn’t get it on my own: as good a time as any to take a new connection for a spin. I doused myself in a glamour as I wove my way through the weekend crowd to Ricochet’s side. I’d come in a reliable skirt-and-heels number to grease the wheels, but to my mild surprise, I felt my jaw set itself a little squarer as the illusion set in — felt my posture straighten, the sway drain from my gait, as my form adjusted itself to his tastes. That brief flash of his history I’d seen when we first met ran through my mind again, and something in my image of him clicked. Huh — well, whatever did the job. “Is this seat taken?” I asked, leaning up against the bar on-script. He looked me over, whiskey in hand, and his lidded eyes gleamed in just the way I was hoping to see. I smiled. Maybe all this *would* be worth it after all. See, I’d known, on paper, that agreeing to Belladonna’s first offer of shameless extortion wouldn’t exactly be the *strongest* start to my career here. I certainly didn’t look forward to defending that choice to Solomon… though for what it was worth, I did intend to renegotiate as soon as I’d hooked enough of a personal audience to give me some bargaining power. But in the meantime, Belladonna had promised me clients in exchange for my tithe, and… to be blunt, I needed sex more than I needed money at the moment. A steady source of lust would keep my magic reliable, and — for tasks like these, especially — reliable magic was my best advantage. (Not to mention that the more people I met and won over, the more free-range devils, available occultists, and opportunities of any sort to escape Hell’s sphere of influence were likely to show themselves. Two birds, one stone, or something like that.) But of course, any strategy is worthless until proven. So it was a satisfying rush to see my now well-fed magic do its work: Ricochet’s expression warmed on cue, and I knew he would give me what I wanted. And he did. His laidback demeanor had me optimistic when we first met, and with luck on my side, he was proving himself as easy as I’d hoped. Truthfully, I hadn’t put too much thought into the tact I’d take with Morax — only that, given Lenny’s attitude toward me, I suspected earning their proper respect would be an uphill climb I really wasn’t in the mood for. So the fallback would have to do for now: be friendly, a bit of a flirt, enough of an airhead to be harmless, enough of a gossip to excuse my curiosity. Be sheepish and needy and grateful. If there was one thing I’d learned time and again, it was that few men could resist a bashful thanks from a pretty face; I was learning it once again now. Ricochet promised me a meeting with Hinn, a Lotus Guild succubus from Sloth and one of Morax’s newest summons. He may not have been able to help me access Hellish media, he admitted, but chatting with a new summon was the next best thing. He could bring her over to the Lounge and set us up in a private booth and everything, no problem — so long as I spent some time with him when we were done, he tacked on with a lazy grin. Well, of course; I’d thought that went without saying. I thanked him kindly. --- When Hinn finally bids me goodnight, she’s tipsy and chipper, and I’m thinking of nothing. She shuts the curtain behind her, a nice courtesy. She also leaves me a mess of empty glasses and spilled liquor to handle, but it doesn’t occur to me to mind. It’s a comfortable kind of nothing. Or a familiar kind, at least, which is close enough. I can’t remember much of what I said to her, but it doesn’t matter. It never does with this sort of thing — an exchange with someone who will likely never see me again, and will never know me either way. I perform, I clean up. I take stock of my spoils. The first part is done. The second part is easy. I stack our empty glasses neatly and take them to the counter. I come back with napkins to mop up her side of the table. I didn’t catch the name of what she ordered, but it was sweet enough to be sticky, dark enough to stain, and apparently strong enough for those first two things to have slipped her mind; maybe on another day it would have put me on edge to watch her cocktail slosh against the sides of its glass as she spoke with her hands, but I can’t think much of it now. I do what I can. I ball up the soiled napkins together so they’ll be easy to toss, when I’m ready to give up the booth. I’m not ready to give up the booth yet. I close the curtain. …and so leaves the last part. My mind is… sluggish. There’s a pleasant inertia to the cleaning. My hands itch for something more to do. Hinn’s words are hazy, hallucinatory, when I try to play our conversation back. As if I’d never quite heard her, no matter how many times she’d repeated herself, or as if maybe I’d been drifting in and out of sleep. But I know neither of those were true. So they’d killed her, then. It makes sense. It fits the crime. It isn’t really news to me, is it? I busy myself with the last of my napkins, scrubbing from my hands what soaked through the others. And the rest had been caught. Caught and punished, presumably. Would they have received the same sentence? I don’t know enough to say. Maybe I should have asked Hinn. I didn’t, because my story hadn’t given me a reason to, but surely I could’ve thought of one if she’d asked. My palms are still sticky with something — grenadine, maybe, by the color. Would Solomon know anything about Hellish law? I only know his work on the surface, but I’ve never asked about his background. I could ask. The dry napkin doesn’t help much with the grenadine, just smears it around. No, that’s a silly train of thought. Even if he could tell me, what difference would knowing make? The image comes to me, unbidden, of that encounter which was… a month ago, now. Is that right? I can’t decide if that feels too recent or too far away. I’d seen a phantom of my old… of Oleander conjured through the fog, and I’d been angry with him, or resentful, maybe. Some tension I hadn’t cared to name. And with that memory, the sense of something solid vanishing beneath me hits with sudden vertigo. …So he hadn’t tricked me. Or if he had, it didn’t matter. My loose ends were tied with his. We’d gotten away with it, all of it — both of us. Only us. The napkin is a lost cause. I need to wash my hands. Time to give up the booth, then. I gather my trash, make a detour to dispose of it, and retreat to the customer bathroom. The employee bathroom is cleaner, but if I use the employee bathroom then Belladonna might stop me to talk, and I don’t want to talk to Belladonna right now. The bathroom is empty; its door is heavy. While private booths at the Satin Lounge are curtained off for some semblance of privacy, the curtains are drafty and thin, and what little they do to filter sound is probably half psychological. By comparison, the bathroom is… quiet. The thrum of life that survives the door is muffled, distant. I remember thinking my first time here that we really ought to just pump some music in like they do in other, nicer clubs; I think that again now. I can hear the rhythm of my breathing. I turn the pressure on the faucet up as high as it will go. I keep my eyes down as I wash my hands. I’ve never been the superstitious sort, so I can’t explain it — it just seems a bad omen to meet my own eyes here while I’m alone. But with my focus downcast, I notice a small spot of red on the cuff of my sleeve. Ah— *shit*. Was that from cleaning just now, or did she splash me while talking? Is it still fresh enough to wash? I run the spot under cold water; check; knead a bit of hand soap into the fabric and rinse again, hot this time. It makes no difference. Damn it. I breathe deep, in and out; dry my sleeve with a paper towel as best I can and roll it up to hide the stain, then the other to match. I really should’ve done that before, but there’s no use thinking that now. It’s not like I can take it back. Ah, well — it was getting warm in here, anyway. Ricochet catches my eye as I emerge back onto the floor, into the merciful thick of ambience. He has a booth for us, a bottle of whiskey, and a pair of glasses — one full, one empty. He flashes me a grin. If his open posture isn’t a clear enough invitation, the nod of his head toward the seat he’s left empty next to him certainly is. Right. My plans for the night aren’t over yet. I make my way over to him, not thinking anything in particular; I made promises, I’ll keep them. And it’s some grounding relief to slot into his side, his arm slung across the back of my seat to embrace me by the shoulders as I join him. He’s taller than me, just slightly broader, and warm. His clothes smell like smoke, but surprisingly clean besides, and up close the grease in hair seems more like product than sweat. So he washed up for me. That was sweet of him. “So how’d it go?” he asks, filling my glass from the bottle. “You get what you were after?” “Yes, everything,” I murmur. He keeps talking. I try to keep up. I find it hard to focus. I tap my foot under the table; fiddle with my rolled sleeves; watch the condensation drip down my untouched glass. I must be meeting each of his questions with less and less of an answer, or maybe I ought to have checked my complexion in the mirror after all — because he eventually nudges my shoulder and leans in to take a furrowed look at my face. “Hey, you— doin’ okay? Rabbit?” he asks. I don’t have an answer. I don’t want to think of one. I’m suddenly quite tired of thinking. I’m tired of talking, too. So I won’t. In one motion, I down as much of my glass as I can and pull our ratty curtain closed. Then I shove Ricochet’s shoulders back against his seat, swing a leg over his thighs to straddle, and kiss him. It takes him a beat of surprise to register, but only a beat. Another moment flush to his lap tells me he won’t take much convincing. And he doesn’t.