On the run. Sara had smiled at that: a dry smile, for no other kind was possible. Sara — and Pan herself — wished she wasn’t going in so underprepared.
She glanced around the wide, under-lit table at Ivan.
Ivan was a big man, and he towered over his two drinking companions. But it wasn’t his size that immediately alarmed Sara. It was his soft and calm eyes. So far, the gamblers had been spiky and aggressively direct, but the newcomer oozed potent ability held in restraint below the surface. She noted the number of his bets down. It was minimal, and she didn’t like that. Ivan, Sara knew, had a cool head for strategy and soaked up tactics like a sponge.
She nodded at the dealer at Ivan’s table. Thank the light Ivan didn’t get Pan to deal. Pan’s hustling skills were fast becoming legendary. Or at least the meat of back room horror stories.
Like Pan, the dealer was dressed in a crisp, emerald green uniform with spotless white gloves. Each gold button on his chest twinkled like a star in the soft, white illumination. The dealer pressed a button on a control wand, and a three dimensional holographic view of Moscow rose from the betting table’s glass top.
Sara had seen this hologram a hundred times, but she still took the opportunity to study this relief image. Moscow was built into the peaks of a mountain range that rose dramatically above the lethal atmospheric oceans of pollution covering the planet. The habitations were fat and tall, like the lids of forest mushrooms. Their skirts projected out over the sides of almost vertical mountains. It had a population of twelve million. Moscow was a fortress, built to withstand a war. She looked up. There was no land to see. Only millions of square kilometers of dimpled, stained clouds projected onto the ceiling of Cafe MIO. there were fast moving ribbons of pearly sculpture, dotting puffs of yellow fleece, iridescent bars of almost silver...
Ivan’s dealer, on the other side of the room, nodded. He was busy readying the men, free drinks and next round of bets. Sara knew what he was thinking. She could do with a few more day’s practice before working the tables. The drinks after betting had been intended to be convivial, to break the ice between punters who knew little about one another. Otherwise it’d be stiff and awkward.
…
On the run.
This Nox was something else.
Nox looked at the girl in red and the girl shivered. Nox’s faraway gaze tended to do that. There was a touch of snake about him, in his hooded eyes and elegant but elusive manner. He was slim, dark and good looking and, like many of the Moscow men, had a tattoo. Nox’s was a bright red and black dragon eating its own tail on his left inner forearm.
There was an uneasy pause. No one spoke. Sara knew normal men ached to unburden themselves and complain. But Nox didn’t volunteer anything besides his casual smile.
She cleared her throat.
“Right. Let me bring you that beer. I think we should both drink to your health.”
Turning down another dance, Sara had withdrawn quickly, walking down the carpeted floor and up the two steps to the bar. She waved to the bartender.
“This beer tastes ok?” she asked quietly.
The big, thick-bearded man leaned against the bar top and nodded without even tasting Nox's beer. His bared forearms were like hams and decorated, under the hair, with blue stars and spirals.
Sara snorted and grabbed Nox's beer bottle. "Thanks for the vote of underwhelming confidence."
“So, what did you do to the cult?” said Sara. “And what’s it like?” she added, sitting down next to Nox and letting her legs swing off the sofa.
“The light protects,” grinned Sara. She plucked the vodka bottle from the table, took a swig, and offered it to Nox.
Nox shook his head. He’d abstained from spirits the whole night.
Sara sighed, took back the glass and sipped again. She missed Ivan who’d kick back and drink the night away with her as hard as he’d probably work the next day. She understood Nox’s caution, and had no wish to see him turned into a raging, drunken mess. She’d seen men drink hard, shamefully, and paid the price for their mistakes in the dark days. She hadn’t missed that time in her career. There was no part of that hard path she wanted to retrace.
But she missed comradely Ivan who did drink vodka. There was a distance between them.
“So… this cult."
She toasted Nox with the glass. “If they’re sending people after you, I don’t think their hearts are in it. Maybe they’re on your side.”
Sara