The First Age

[[continued from House Party]]

In the neon wash of lights in the RLD, no one glanced twice at the kink of a black velvet mask covering a woman’s face. Once she was far enough away from Nox’s building, she finally parted her lips to let it fall loose into the splay of her waiting hand. For a time at least, the fresh cold air soothed how hot and stuffy it had been underneath, but Muscovite winter bit hard. She considered the warmth and distraction of one of the district’s clubs – the night was still young enough, and she hadn’t exactly figured on leaving the other party alone. But the Emissary’s keys were tight in her hand, and time might well be of the essence, so she pushed her mask into the hands of a passerby with a knowing wink, then found herself transport.

Her current home was new to her: an indomitable and exclusive highrise. Moscow had a lot to choose from, and Nesrin enjoyed luxury – all the more when it was “borrowed.” Security gave her no trouble; the doorman recognised her already, and even said a hello as the click of her heels crossed the marble foyer. He tapped his chest, and she glanced down at hers, certain she’d removed the party sticker, but it was only the pink Hello Kitty badge. She gave a cute smirk, raised her brows, but offered no explanation. He could make his own.

She stopped by her condo, but only briefly on the way up. Her hip was smarting where she’d fallen backwards, and she’d explored enough of the building to have discovered somewhere better to spend the rest of night. The skyline twinkled like tiny cast jewels from the rooftop, city noise distant. This particular glass-framed corner of it was an open air oasis, but Nesrin liked the icy chill of the cold on her skin. She dumped her bottle of champagne and flipped the switch of the jacuzzi. It might have been common space, or it might have belonged to one of the other apartments; she actually didn’t know, but the wide-eyed ignorance of a ditsy house-sitter was often enough to convince of innocence. And a half-naked girl in a hot tub was usually forgiven her trespasses quickly enough.

She pulled on the robe, wriggling out of the dress and leaving it to pool forgotten on the floor. It was fucking cold, but it only flushed her cheeks with the exhilaration. She didn’t check for bruises, and the light was too soft a glow in the darkness to see much anyway; instead, wrapped in fluffy warmth, she pulled on the bikini underneath. While she waited for the water to warm, she leaned back against the edge and examined the keys. She’d only intended them for leverage, not for keeps. Stealing was a risky game, not least when you were caught, and the m’Antinomian were dangerous for what they could unravel. Not that she didn’t still plan to bargain her way out of it, but something about the way the Emissary had touched her arm still didn’t sit right, and she was curious as to what she was bargaining with.

They’d felt like keys, but this was the first time all evening she’d been able to look at them properly.

And now she wasn’t so sure.

The hot water was bliss, and Nesrin sank into the opulence. She drank champagne from the bottle while she contemplated her predicament, bathed in shadows and the glow of the city skyline. She’d discovered a tiny puzzle box on the keyring, nestled next to the mundane key. Its secrets eluded her for now, which was frustrating, but what she was actually considering was what the fuck to do with it. Preferably without burning any bridges she might later need. Whatever was hidden inside, it was unlikely to be of use to her; the m’Antinomian were a cut above the rest, and if it turned out to be tech she imagined it’d be completely beyond her comprehension. But that didn’t make it worthless to her either. It was a complication, though, that was for sure.

When she’d had her fill of luxuriating, she climbed out of the jacuzzi and wrapped the robe back around her. The cold made her grin breathless, and she took one last peek at the playground of this new city spread out below before she grabbed her things. Back in the condo she took a shower, then situated herself amongst a mass of pillows on the master bed, snug in a pair of men’s silk pyjamas, before she finally checked any devices. The alert wasn’t much of a surprise, but it still made her mutter fuckfuckfuck under her breath. Admittedly there was a bit of thrill too (or maybe that was just the bubbles in her head). Because nothing said value quite like the threat of a price to be paid.

Zigzag didn’t earn his name by betraying clients, though maybe he’d make an exception for one who’d stolen from the Emissary, if it came down to it, because it certainly sounded like he considered his own neck to be on the line. Nesrin didn't lack caution, but neither was she afraid of risk when she felt that little twist of thrill inside; the same inclination that slipped her fingers into the Emissary's pockets in the first place. Return the key, and then what? Bode was on the radar now, and even if she played nice, that was a black mark against the name. Or the first rung on the ladder of notoriety. 

Instead the message she encrypted back was simply: what is he?

Zigzag hadn't expected a response from Bode. And the question that returned his message was even harder to explain than what it was she had stolen.

He is host to our gods. Those who bless us with their will and their ethereal connections. The ones whom we worship in all their glory. They are not to be trifled with. Death would be a pleasant reprieve for what they could do to us.

Nesrin asked the question, phrased that particular way – what, not who – because of her strange encounter: the mixed pronouns, the gravelly voice, the robotic emptiness when she’d first found him stood against the wall. Should Zigzag even reply, she did not expect anything beyond a reiteration of his warning, or maybe something so simple as a curt: he is the Emissary. Instead her eyes bounced in surprise over words like host and gods and worship. She glanced to where the puzzle box lay discarded amidst the blankets. It occurred to her she could just give it to Balthazar, hide behind the protection of the Asquith name. His family had contacts, and they’d be particularly interested in a god’s secrets. But it meant revealing things about herself she’d rather even Zar didn’t know.

She slipped off the bed to fix herself a drink while she thought about it. The warning reverberated inside, spiking ice in her veins and trembling her hands, but there was something harder inside too. She was a survivor, and a self-sufficient loner for all she used the people around her. She could ask Zigzag what the key actually was. Maybe he’d even answer in a bid to urge her to see sense. But she didn’t. Instead she was thinking about how the Emissary had shrugged her control off and walked away when he should have followed.

She’d not had the paternity test yet, which meant Nesrin Aziz was still nothing more than a nobody who’d existed within the Custody for only a handful of years. Despite the lengths she went to to obscure her identity, it wasn’t something she was worried about being discovered – it was just another construct after all. Her mother had never registered her birth in Cairo, and Nesrin didn’t even know if her name was the one she had been given, or was just something used by the man who raised her. The woman she was now (legally speaking) was entirely built by the Asquiths, including the date they chose for her birthday.

So whatever the m’Antinomian managed to untangle from her presence on the dark web, the chances of any of them finding her in the flesh were slim, even if Zigzag betrayed what he knew – voluntarily or otherwise. Nesrin took a sip of her drink and rolled the cool glass against her lip as she wandered the darkened apartment. She could offer to return this key, and hope for clemency – she could certainly play the game of good little girl, it wasn’t new – but a blessing of will sounded frankly unsettling. Especially when she remembered the way the Emissary had stroked her arm, not in flirtation, but in some kind of consideration. That felt especially sinister now. And if the Emissary couldn’t be an ally who’d dance to her tune when she needed him to, he was no use to her at all.

But maybe his key could be used to flush new allies out.

“Sorry, Zigzag. But fuck your gods,” she murmured to herself as she climbed back amongst the cushions. Ice clinked in her glass. She grabbed her wallet and set to work.