Indigo Rain (2 page)

“I’m sure anyone would have done it.” She swished her tail once slowly to see if it hurt. Only a little. Her right leg stung, though.

“Not anyone would have been able to.” The woman’s tone remained stiff.

Roulette smiled. “We’re good climbers.” She looked at her right leg and suppressed a grimace. She could feel the scratch more than see it and it wasn’t deep, but whatever she’d caught on had ripped a long, jagged tear across her skirt. She couldn’t quite suppress a sigh. She’d known it would get dirty scaling the tree, but the outfit that made her prettier five minutes ago now made her look like a vagrant.

“Yes, I see,” the woman said, nodding as if this were a sage observation. “Say thank you to the raccoon woman, Dudley.”

“Thank you,” Dudley mumbled, staring at the ground rather than Roulette.

“You’re welcome, Dudley,” she replied, smoothing her skirt down as best she could.

An awkward silence settled. Roulette wondered if the woman would say anything about her dress—if she would offer to repair it, or pay for it, or even just offer a damp cloth. Maybe the woman was waiting for something from her.

At length Roulette just smiled again, took her knapsack, and headed back down the sidewalk. She heard the woman leading Dudley back into the house, but didn’t turn around.

The street lamps had flickered to life, the pale yellow cast marking them as gas-powered rather than the electrical fixtures she’d heard Raneadhros had, or the glowstone lamps back in Orinthe. Public magic, she’d quickly learned, wasn’t common in Achoren, another strange cultural quirk. It didn’t stop magic from being used in small, less obvious ways; it was easy to find iceboxes chilled by enchantment rather than actual ice, and she knew a half-dozen offices for sending messages via spell instead of physical courier. But she rarely saw people carrying glowstone lanterns, or shops selling shirts toughened by enchantment into simple armor.

As she crossed Red Oak Avenue, the tenor of the neighborhood visibly shifted. Trees no longer lined the streets and the houses became smaller, more weathered, closer together. Most still had front porches, but little in the way of yards, and ornate wrought iron fences became forbidding bars across windows and doors. The air had—at least to a Procya—an acrid, slightly sour tang from rubbish left a little too long uncollected, skin and fur left a little too long unbathed. It smelled no worse than any raucous Orinthe market between dusk closing and cleanup, but the scents were a constant presence here, and lacked the familiarity of home.

Even so, she’d been through worse areas not only elsewhere in this city but in her hometown—the hole she’d lived in during her brief, better-forgotten flirtation with trade school made her current accommodations look like the mansions of her daydreams. And, with a far more diverse mix of races here, merchants and landlords in this neighborhood were more comfortable with her. Most of the downtown shopkeepers were polite and she’d gotten friendly with some, but even the most polite seemed to keep their eyes on her a little more than on their other customers. As much as she’d like to think it was her captivating beauty, she wasn’t that naïve.

It took three more blocks before she reached the boarding house she now called home. There were no street lamps at all in this neighborhood; humans, were they abroad at night here, carried lanterns with them. But few came here even in daylight. While the old brick building had the now-ubiquitous bars on its windows, it was well-kept and a fire nearly always burned in the great room’s hearth.

After a wave to the boarding house’s matron, an elderly wolf she rarely saw out except at meal times, Roulette climbed the stairs and traipsed down the hall to her own room. Once inside, she dropped her knapsack at the foot of the bed, re-locked the door and promptly stripped out of her clothes, spreading the stained skirt out on the bed. As she’d feared, the damage was unrepairable, the fabric torn across its weave. Even if she could get the sap out—which she doubted—it would never look nice again.

Sighing, she emptied her coin purse next to the skirt, quickly counting coins into piles. Eighty-nine vars for the day total. While she’d done better, that was still good.

Leaving out three ten-pieces, she commenced her nightly ritual: slide a small trunk out from under the bed. Unlock the trunk. Unlock the strongbox inside. Put the money in the box. Lock the box. Put it in the trunk. Lock the trunk. Slide the trunk back under the bed. She converted her coins into bills weekly, but had given up on getting a bank account here in Achoren. They seemed to make it extraordinarily difficult if you weren’t a citizen. She’d get one when she moved to Raneadhros.

Thirty vars was a lot for dinner out. She wouldn’t spend it all, but maybe she’d spend more than usual—she needed it after the evening. Then she frowned. Maybe she should spend
less
than usual, and save up for that dress: with this one ruined, she only had two good ones left.

She could get the dress now, but it would mean digging deep into her savings.

Unless she had a sudden windfall.

She grimaced. “You’re
not
really thinking of going after him tonight,” she said aloud.

Even as she spoke, she ran her fingers over the hole in the skirt, and sighed.

Reaching the White Orchid Inn
required walking all the way back to the business district, then three more blocks north into one of the oldest sections of Norinton. Professional offices, high-priced restaurants and beautiful old hotels and inns lined the streets. Most buildings had wood exteriors, usually white or pale yellow, although the color of the street lamps made it hard to tell the two shades apart at night.
 
Roulette had changed into the second best of her two remaining outfits; it would be easier to shed in the kind of dance she suspected she’d be performing. But now she regretted not choosing the first—she'd feel less derelict wearing it here. Given that she hadn't seen a single non-human in these three blocks, though, she suspected her clothes weren't what drew the occasional haughty glance. As much as she thought of herself as a citizen of the world—or at least of the Empire—she never felt farther from home than when she visited this neighborhood.

As she expected, the White Orchid was antique, stately and splendid. When she looked in from the high, open lobby, not a soul with fur could be seen in either the sitting room or dining room other than a Rilima maid. Neither the doorman nor the woman behind the registration desk so much as arched an eyebrow at Roulette as she walked in, though, and the doorman even smiled; there was hope for the country yet.

A longer look into the dining room showed the service had ended. A few couples lingered at tables over coffee and half-finished desserts. She deliberated a moment, then headed into the handsome sitting room, bare paws silent against the hardwood floor. Perching on a wicker settee near the fireplace, she crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap, breathing in the scents of wood and ash, of bouquets of lavender on the end tables, of the perfumes worn by other guests. The boarding house’s space was comfortable, but the White Orchid was not only pleasant but beautiful. This was the kind of place she’d stay in if she ever came back to Achoren.

She heard slow footsteps approaching from behind, so expected the soft murmur over her shoulder when it came. “It’s good to see you again…Roulette? Yes?”

“Yes,” she said, keeping her voice warm as she tilted back her head. He looked just as she’d seen him earlier, down to the jacket. She rarely found humans all that attractive, and this gentleman wasn’t among the select few. For his apparent age, though, she’d seen far worse; she suspected human women of the same age would find him handsome enough. And everything from his attire to his bearing—not to mention his choice of rendezvous point—bespoke wealth. “I don’t believe I’ve learned your name yet, Mister…?”

“Blue,” he said after a moment.

She smiled and nodded slightly. After all, Roulette wasn’t her given name, either. “Well, then, Mr. Blue. I believe you were offering a donation for my dancing
 
earlier? That’s very appreciated.”

“So was your dance.” He walked around the couch and sat down beside her, maintaining a more respectful distance than she’d expected. “I truly didn’t have the money on me then that I though it deserved, but…” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a billfold, then handed her a fifty-var note. “Here.”

She suppressed her gasp, but her whiskers twitched visibly. “Thank you very much, sir. That’s most generous.” She considered tucking the bill into her cleavage rather than her purse, but settled for merely leaning over farther than she needed to as she put the money away.

“You deserve it,” he said after a few seconds had passed. “Your dancing is most extraordinary. I’ve seen human dancers before, but there’s something… special about the dancing of your kind.”

“Of Procya?”

“Of all the…furred races? I’ve gathered ‘furry’ is considered disrespectful.”

She inclined her head with a wry smile. “It would be like calling you a ‘fleshy,’ sir. I’m not sure if you’d find that disrespectful, but I imagine you’d find it a little—a little reductive.”

He lifted his brows and laughed. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but yes. I see.” Then he tilted his head, smiling curiously. “‘Reductive.’ You’re very well-spoken.”

“I did well in school.”

Mr. Blue nodded and fidgeted. She waited for him to make the offer she knew was coming.

“Would you consider a more… private dance for me?”

Roulette smiled softly, meeting his eyes. “Understand that I’m
only
a dancer.”

“Of course.”

“No touching any more intimate than shaking your hand.”

He hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Yes. But I’d like to see…more of you. I’ll pay you quite well.”

She nodded slowly, then gave him a small—but suggestive—smile. “Then lead me to your room, Mr. Blue.”

“I’m in room six. I’ll head up now, taking the main set of stairs. You wait five minutes, then follow me, using the far set of stairs. All right?”

For heaven’s sake.
“All right, sir.”

Mr. Blue smiled and rose. “I’ll see you soon,” he whispered. With another glance around as if to make sure no one had seen the conversation, he made his way up the wide main staircase near the registration counter.

Roulette didn’t watch him go. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap again and began to watch the wall clock.

While the White Orchid’s lobby
and hallways positively shimmered with gleaming wood and brass trim, the room Roulette was let into was lit only by a single small oil lamp; even her eyes needed a moment to adjust. She wondered how long it had taken Mr. Blue, with his poor human eyesight, to see anything at all.

“Come on in, Roulette,” he murmured, closing the door behind her and heading over toward the bed. “I believe there’s enough space for you to dance, isn’t there?”

She nodded. “Yes.” He’d pushed some furniture to the room’s sides, creating an open area for her. Almost ten feet of space lay between the bed and the long, wide dresser against the far wall. Curiously, six large decorative glass bottles with sprayer tops, each with a dark blue liquid inside, lined the dresser’s surface.

“Perfumes? Are you a salesman, Mr. Blue?”

“You’re quite observant, aren’t you? Not a salesman, but I’m in the compounding business. I’ll give you some perfume after we’re finished.”

“That’s kind of you, but I don’t—”

“I insist,” he said, looking strangely serious as he sat down on the bed, eyes locked on her. “But now, dance. Please.”

Roulette reached into a pocket of her skirt and pulled out her belled anklets, fastening each one by lifting her legs up and balancing on one foot, first right, then left.

Then she began to dance.

The dance was similar to her street dance, but slowed to half speed, sways more exaggerated, dips and bends lower. As she spun, her hands slid over her body, loosening ties, undoing buttons. None of her clothes fell to the floor—yet—but now they billowed with her movements.

Mr. Blue’s breathing wobbled. “Very nice,” he whispered.

A minute passed, the tempo of her whirling faster now, her blouse falling gracefully to the floor beside her. She wore a sleeveless top under it, gossamer thin, showing the sleek fur and lacy bra beneath.

Roulette moved close enough to the bed that her tail
just
missed brushing against his body as she spun. As her hands moved into position to pull off her top in a smooth, well-practiced motion, though, Mr. Blue leaned forward and grabbed her arm. The motion nearly caused her to stumble against him.

She took a deep breath, letting herself stay close to him, but making sure she was balanced. He made no attempt to hide the stare into her cleavage now. “No touching, sir,” she whispered. “We agreed.”

“Unfasten my belt,” he said hoarsely.

She leaned forward, tugging on her hand to encourage him to let go. “
You
can unfasten your belt if you want, Mr. Blue,” she murmured. “What
I
do is dance.”

He grimaced, but nodded, more throwing her arm away rather than letting it go. He immediately brought both of his hands to his belt and fumbled to undo it.