Page 48 of The Bargain

He pulls a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his blazer pocket and tucks one between his teeth. His lighter flicks between his fingers, a silver spark followed by a flame—he’s surprisingly dexterous for a guy his size. He pushes his hand back through his hair, which is short, thick and black.

“You’re taking the moral high ground?”

He doesn’t sound offended—more like amused at my hypocrisy. I shrug and shake my head when he offers me a cigarette.

“Why don’t you just tell me what you want?”

He takes a deep drag and exhales a serpent of smoke that disappears into the shadowy alcove above our heads. He glances out of the window we’re standing next to: outside, it’s begun to rain at last, a thick, heavy sheet that drains everything of its colour.

Dimitri jabs his chin in the direction of the window.

“You know who that is?”

I follow his gaze. The window overlooks the courtyard below: thick grey flagstones and a fountain with a stone statue that’s gotten more mossy with each passing year.

Next to the fountain is a pale figure: a girl wearing the dark Spearcrest uniform, her hair so pale it’s almost silver. She stands in the rain, unmoving, her arms hugged around her, her hair so wet it’s moulded to the shape of her skull like a thin ghostly shell.

I recognise her—not from the cafeteria, the time Desdemona sat on my lap, but mostly because her face has been splashed all over the Spearcrest Inquisitor ever since she arrived.

“Natalya Valenkova.” I glance at Dimitri. “Your fiancée…”

At first, I don’t even know if he’s heard me. His gaze is fixed on her, black and unflinching. There’s a darkness in his expression that makes the blood in my veins suddenly cold.

“She’s not my fiancée,” he says finally. His voice is so low it rumbles underneath the sound of the rain beating on the windowpanes, making them rattle in their wooden frames. The next time he speaks, his voice comes out in a whisper, a disturbing mix of awe and resentment and fascination. “She’s a weapon.”

“A what?”

He tears his gaze away from her. “I need you to get me some dirt on her.”

“What kind?”

“Any.” He gestures with his hand holding the cigarette, scattering a sprinkling of black ashes. “Info. Weaknesses. Mistakes.”

I stare at him. “What’s she doing down there?”

He gives me another empty, predatory smile. “Waiting for me.”

“In the rain?”

“Nothing’s forcing her to stay there.”

“Did you tell her to stay there?”

He shrugs. “You in or not?”

This isn’t the first time I’ve been asked to do something like this. The thing about being rich and powerful is that you always have something to lose. And when everyone has money and power, the only way to get the upper hand on someone else is by having something on them.

I glance down at Natalya Valenkova, standing alone in the rain for all to see, just because her asshole fiancé told her to. Her chin is tilted up. Her eyes are fixed on the building, and for a moment, I have the eerie impression that she’s watching us right back.

And I’m suddenly reminded of Desdemona, kneeling stiff-backed on my bedroom floor, picking up all her dirty money. Doing something she’d rather die than do, all because she feels she has no other choice.

So the question is…

What’s the invisible knife at Natalya Valenkova’s throat?

“Not.” I push off the wall. “This isn’t the kind of shit I do.”

“Thought your whole thing was solving people’s problems?”