“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.

Behind us, a food court occupied a good chunk of the floor. Several rough-looking people ate at the tables, some alone, some in groups. The air smelled like fresh bread, cooked meat, and strong coffee. After Curran gave up being Beast Lord, he found himself the majority owner of the Mercenary Guild. His first act was to fix the food. Shapeshifters ate a lot and often.

Marten sniffed. “Smells yummy.”

“I thought your tummy hurt?”

“It’s all better now.”

Stella was right. This girl was a bottomless pit.

We waited. Barabas occupied a large office on our left, behind a glass wall. Normally the door was open, and you could see him working at his desk through the glass. Today the plantation shutters behind the glass blocked the view and his door was closed. He must have wanted privacy.

Nobody bothered us. The mercs kept to themselves. They teamed up for larger jobs, but most of them were lone-wolf types. They handled jobs the cops wouldn’t or couldn’t, anything from hostile magic hazmat removal to bodyguard detail and armed escort. They drew the line at assault-and murder-for-hire and generally tended to stay on the good side of the law, but aside from that, any job was fair game if it paid enough.

I casually glanced at the exposed ceiling beams high above us. Empty.

The door of Barabas’ office swung open slightly, as someone paused with one hand on the door handle. A low male laugh, a deep rumble, came from the gap.

Curran.

I swept Marten into my arms and made a beeline for the women’s restroom. Behind me the door swung open with a faint creak. Don’t run, don’t run, don’t run… Curran was a cat. If I ran, he would notice.

I pushed the restroom door open, and we ducked inside. I leaned against the door and braced myself. A long moment passed. Another…

Marten blinked at me and said in a hushed voice, “Why are we hiding in the bathroom?”

“We are not hiding. We’re executing an evasive maneuver.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s to our strategic advantage.”

Marten nodded.

Excited voices came muffled through the door. Curran laughed again. It was taking every iota of my willpower to keep the door closed. He wouldn’t recognize me. Of course, he wouldn’t. But if he did, I would have a lot of questions to answer. I wasn’t sure I could lie to Curran, and if I tried, he would probably know.

The voices receded. Someone yelled, “And stay out, you beach bum!” More laughter followed. Finally, it died down.

I waited another half a minute and came out of the bathroom. Barabas’ door was open. The shutters were up, and I saw him sitting at his desk, his blazing red hair standing on end like hedgehog needles.

“He’ll see you now,” the Clerk called.

I walked into Barabas’ office, set Marten into one of the two client chairs, and took the other.

Barabas looked up. He had an agile face with angular features and smart green eyes. His skin, so pale it was a wonder he didn’t glow at night, resisted a sunburn with the power only Lyc-V could muster. He wore a suit despite the heat, but he’d taken the jacket off and rolled up the sleeves of his blue dress shirt, exposing lean muscular forearms. Everything about him seemed quick and sharp.

Don’t hold your breath. Act natural. You don’t smell the same.

Barabas studied me and Marten. “What can I do for you?”

I put a narrow gold bar on his desk. It was about the length of my finger, half an inch wide and half an inch tall.

Barabas’ eyebrows crept up. He picked up his phone. “Charles, I need you for a second.”

A moment later, an older Hispanic man walked through the door. He picked up the bar, looked closely at it, and put it down. “Real.”

Barabas nodded, and Charles left without another word.

The guildmaster steepled his fingers in front of him. “The Guild is at your disposal.”

For twenty grand, it better be. “This is Marten.”

Barabas held out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Marten. I’m Barabas Gilliam. I run the Guild.”

Marten gave him a little wave but kept her hands to herself.

“Marten is a street kid,” I told him. “She doesn’t trust anyone, especially adult males.”