Page 55 of Deathless
"Also no idea."
Lorenzo sipped his coffee. "I like him."
The door at the end of the hall banged open, and a kid came through it like he was already late, laptop bag bouncing off his hip, hoodie pulled up despite the fact that Casablanca in August was a personal attack on everyone in it. He was maybe eighteen, muttering under his breath at something only he could hear. The bag was covered in patches: a raised fist, an old IWW globe, something in Hindi I couldn't read. He angled around us withoutslowing down, dropped into a chair at the table, had his laptop open and was typing before he'd finished sitting down. Then he said something sharp to his screen, not a question, more like a correction, and kept going.
"Hola," I said.
He held up one finger without turning around.
Lorenzo snorted into his coffee.
Thirty seconds later the kid spun his chair around, pulled one earbud out, and looked at us like we owed him for it.
"Vihaan," he said. "Don't touch my setup." He put the earbud back in and spun around.
Jasper found me in the kitchen twenty minutes later, staring at the hot plate. He came in, looked at the shelf: sardines, beets, two cans of something with the label half off, and poured himself the last of the coffee without checking if any remained.
"There's a kid out there talking to his laptop," he said.
"Vihaan. Don't touch his setup."
He drank his coffee and stared at the wall. I slid the last of the bread across the counter. He took it without looking, chewing already, gone somewhere behind his eyes, running the compound approach in his head, walking the north gap on repeat until the steps were automatic.
He pulled a cigarette from the pack on the counter and lit it without breaking his stare. The first drag hollowed his cheeks. His lips closed around the filter, and I lost whatever thought I'd been holding. He exhaled slowly, smoke curling between us in the bad light, and his mouth stayed parted for a second after. I knew that mouth. I'd had it on my throat in Brussels, on my hip in Spain, whispering my name in the dark like a man testing whether saying it would break something. Now he stood in this ugly kitchen, smoking like he had nowhere to be. Three feet separated us. I could taste the smoke from here.
I put my hand on the back of his neck instead.
He went still.
"We're going to get her back," I said.
"I know."
"Jasper." I squeezed once, thumb against the knot at the base of his skull. "Look at me."
He turned his head. The exhaustion on his face had nothing to do with sleep. I kept my hand where it was. If I moved it, I'd put my mouth on that knot, and if I did that, we'd never make it to the briefing.
"We will," I said.
He held my eyes for a beat, then leaned back into my grip, just barely, just enough. Of course he knew. That was never the problem.
Luka appeared in the doorway and said the council was ready, and I let Jasper go.
The war council metin the same stone room where they'd pulled our hoods off the night before. It could have been a power move or just the only room big enough. With Luka, I was never sure. Hades sat in the corner in a suit so clean it was offensive, hands folded. Rhadamanthys had his Stetson back on and the easy posture of a man who'd slept eight hours and eaten a realbreakfast. I resented him for that specifically. Luka stood at the head of a folding table covered in maps, Rafael beside him.
Vihaan had set up at the end of the table, three screens going, still muttering. Mr. Nobody, the man from the floor, sat against the wall with his fiddle across his knees, spine straight, hands loose, holding the middle distance like he was waiting for something and had all the time in the world.
I took a seat and drummed my fingers on the table's edge. Jasper put himself behind my left shoulder, and I leaned back until my spine found his knee. Lorenzo sat beside me and stole my pen before I'd even put it down.
Rhadamanthys spread his hands on the map.
"Nevada," he said. "That's where we start."
"Nevada? Where?" I said.
“Not where. Who.” He pulled a photograph from inside his jacket and slid it across the table. The man in it looked late twenties, dark hair loose around his face, stretched out on a chaise in white linen with a gold collar at his throat. He angled his chin away from the camera like it was beneath him. The collar caught the light. I'd moved enough product through enough ports to know what a gold collar on a man meant, and this one wore it like he'd been born in it.
"Nevada ran the best establishment in Casablanca," Rhadamanthys said. "High-end. The kind of place where powerful men came to relax and forget they were being listened to. Sex workers hear everything, and Nevada turned what walked through his doors into the best intelligence network in North Africa."
