“Nobody goes into Honeycomb, and the Honeycombers venture out into the city only when they need money,” Nick continued. “They’re not picky. They’ll do any shitty job that will pay cash. We don’t even know how many of them are in there. Could be ten, could be a hundred.”
“What about Jasper?”
“Until this morning Jasper ran it.” Nick leaned back. “Congratulations. You killed the king of Honeycomb.”
“Think he will be missed?”
“I doubt it. But I can’t discount the possibility that you’ve just made yourself a target for revenge by a gang of deranged assholes. Low profile isn’t really your thing, Ms. Ryder, is it?”
“Jasper didn’t just happen to meet me, Knight-Protector. He tracked me down. Nobody knows me in the city, which means someone hired him to either look into the Haywood murder or make sure I didn’t.”
Nick grimaced. “Probably the second. He was cunning in a way, but he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed.”
He also wasn’t fully human in the strict definition of that word. “Do you know who usually hires him?”
“He was what you might call an independent contractor. I’ll tell Knight Davis to get you the list of known associates. Don’t get your hopes up.”
Nick fixed me with his stare again. “Do not go into Honeycomb. That’s an order. You won’t find any witnesses, and you won’t get any information. Nobody will talk to you. They will walk you into a wall and you’ll disappear.”
On that we agreed. Going into the Honeycomb was pointless. I was much better off trying to find out who hired Jasper. I didn’t know what his employer’s goal was, but I had a long bill to settle for Dougie’s broken bones.
I realized Nick was waiting for confirmation.
“I promise to not enter the Honeycomb. But if I were to hire someone from the Honeycomb, how would I go about it?”
Nick sighed. “Which part of not going into the Honeycomb was unclear?”
“I said I wouldn’t. But they must hire them somehow. Do they just stand at the edge of Honeycomb Gap and scream at the top of their lungs?”
Nick shook his head. “There is a phone line.”
“Into the Honeycomb? How?”
“Nobody knows. Rumor says it works, and if you know the number, you can dial it, and someone will pick up.”
I stared at him.
Nick shrugged. “You asked.”
“Do you know the number?”
“No. And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
A faint idea began to form in my head.
“Whatever you’re thinking, I don’t approve,” he said.
“Do you ever approve of anything?”
“Yes. Right now, I approve of you getting the hell out of my office. I will handle the Jasper fallout if any occurs. Do what you need to do and don’t get killed.”
And here I was, planning to die a gruesome death. “You’ve said that to me before.”
“I want you to really listen to me this time.” He dug into the drawer of his desk, took out a plastic jar, and shook two pills out onto his palm. “Here.”
I held my hand out, and he dropped the pills into it.
“Take this and get out.”
I walked out. Nick Feldman had just gifted me prescription-strength ibuprofen. In post-Shift world, the stuff was worth its weight in silver. Aww. I swallowed the pills and walked back to Stella’s office.
Marten crouched on the chair, crestfallen.
“What is it?”
“She’s eaten all the cookies,” Stella said dryly. “Now she has a tummy ache.”
“The Knight-Protector told me to ask you for a list of Jasper’s known associates.”
Stella heaved a sigh and got up. “Wait here. Don’t touch anything.”
She left. I looked at Marten. She looked back at me.
“Do you have a mom?” I asked.
“No.”
“A dad?”
“No.”
“Aunt, uncle, cousins? Any living relatives?”
She shook her head.
I had to keep her safe and off the streets. What was I going to do with her? I needed to find a secure place with someone who would watch her twenty-four-seven, because left to her own devices, she would take off. Someone strong enough to protect her from another Jasper.
Stella returned with a single piece of paper. I glanced at it. Four names. An impressive file. A veritable cornucopia of information.
I kept my voice casual. “Thanks. Also, the phone line into the Honeycomb, is it more on the east or the west side of the Gap?”
“West. Just past Martha Street.”
I nodded to her and held my hand out to Marten. “Come on.”
She hopped off the chair. “Where are we going?”
“To see some nice people. They will keep an eye on you until it’s safe.” And they would also keep her from running away.
She glanced up at me. “Will they feed me?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay.” She took my hand, and we walked out of the chapter.
The Clerk of the Mercenary Guild waved me over to his counter. Eight years had passed, and he looked exactly the same, as if I had seen him yesterday. Average height, average build, tan skin, brown hair, perpetually around forty-five. He looked like a seasoned bartender, calm, reserved, and ready to whip out the shotgun from under the counter and blast whatever broke through the Guild’s giant metal doors.
Nobody remembered his name. He was just the Clerk, in charge of assigning gigs, tracking down mercs when special jobs came in for them, and handling other mundane admin tasks. He had always been there, and I suspected he always would be.
The Clerk saw Marten holding my hand and smiled. Marten smiled back. For a little kid, Marten was very aware of her cuteness, and she weaponized it. On our way here, I’d stopped at the 75 Market and bought her three changes of clothes, toiletries, and a backpack. Somehow, she had ended up with a small bag of candy, a strip of jerky, and a peach, all freely gifted by the stall keepers. If she’d been allowed access to the market, she wouldn’t be this thin, but normally the market security chased street kids out. My presence validated hers, and my face smoothed away any doubts anyone might have had. People treated you differently when you were beautiful. Fucked up, but true.
“How can we help you?” the Clerk asked.
“I’d like to see Barabas Gilliam.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but I have money.”
The Clerk nodded. “Let me see what I can do.”
I stepped back a bit. The Clerk lifted the phone, spoke into it, and waved us over again.
“He’ll see you in about fifteen minutes, if you don’t mind waiting.”
“We don’t mind.”
Marten and I walked to a client reception area to the left and slightly in front of the Clerk’s counter, where several padded chairs were arranged in a horseshoe around a coffee table. From his counter, the Clerk could keep an eye on us and on the front doors.
In its previous incarnation, the Guild used to be a luxury Buckhead hotel, a hollow tower with an atrium in its center. The top of the tower had broken off long ago, gnawed to a nub by magic and then pummeled by a giant. The renovations had stabilized the building, but the height was capped at five floors. Anything taller and you risked magic erosion. Now the former hotel served as a base for about three hundred mercenaries, housing an armory, containment cells, storage, barracks, a sick bay, and everything else muscle-for-hire might need.