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“Bailey.” Ariel touches my shoulder. “We’re here.”
And so we are. This is exactly the seedy bar we need.
Taking a few steadying breaths, I exit the car and lead everyone to our destination.
“This place reminds me of the Mos Eisley Cantina from Star Wars,” Felix whispers as we enter.
“All the bars and clubs on Gomorrah remind you of that,” Ariel says. “You need to get out more.”
Napoleon is sitting on an extra-tall barstool to the side, looking red, horned, and tiny, as usual.
I nod toward him. “That’s my guy.”
“Wait a second,” Felix says. “I know him. He sold me a gun once.”
I gape at him. Guns are extremely illegal here on Gomorrah, to the point that even the Enforcers—our law enforcement—are not allowed to carry them. Only the Senate Guard, a type of secret service for the government, and the Gomorrah equivalent of SWAT carry guns.
Then again, given what I know about Napoleon, it doesn’t surprise me that he sells guns and other taboo items.
“What kind of Cognizant is he?” Ariel whispers loudly. “He looks like a little red devil.”
I cast a worried glance at Napoleon. I hope his hearing can’t pick up what we’re saying. “He calls himself a nain rouge.”
“That’s just ‘red dwarf’ in French,” Itzel whispers.
Of course she speaks French. Gnomes are very good at languages.
“I believe his kind are more commonly called the lutin,” Kit says in a hushed tone and turns herself into a pretty and feminine little red devil. “They’re forced to look like humans on Earth.” She transforms into a petite human with the same features as the little devil. “The lutin are amazing lovers.”
“Someone really needs to get laid,” Felix mutters under his breath.
“You volunteering?” Kit shimmers into Maya and licks her lips in a disturbingly sexual manner.
Felix reddens to Napoleon’s levels as Ariel chokes on laughter. At the bar, Napoleon’s pointy ear twitches.
“Hey, Napoleon!” I call loudly and head toward him.
The nain rouge puts down his murky, ruby-colored drink and turns around to scan the bar. Spotting me, he bares his sharp, predatory teeth in a wide smile.
“Bailey.” He pronounces my name with a district French accent. “Nice to see you outside my dreams for a change.”
I smile and greet him in French before switching to English for the benefit of my American friends. “This is Kit, Itzel, and Ariel, and you already know Felix.”
Napoleon looks Felix up and down. “Oui, the gun. I hope you only used it on your backwater world, as you assured me you would.”
Felix bobs his head. “I’d never brandish it on Gomorrah.”
“Good. Good.” Napoleon picks up his drink and takes a sip. “I charge double the price I gave you if it’s for local use.”
Itzel huffs. “Worried if someone gets caught, it could come back to bite you?”
“Gnomes and their bluntness.” Napoleon gulps the rest of his drink. “Even orcs have more finesse.”
“Speaking of orcs,” I say casually, hoping to keep the cost of the information we need as low as possible. “We’re looking for one named Vas Lube. Where can we find him?”
Clicking his little red fingers, Napoleon summons the elf bartender and orders another drink—Chimera’s Fire.
I inwardly cringe. He’s about to get a concoction so hot and spicy, some say it’s made by fermenting reaper peppers—abominations with a Scoville Heat Unit in the millions.
The bartender places the drink in front of Napoleon, and as a drop of it spills on the coaster, it sizzles.
The nain rouge takes a long sip and grins as contentedly as a child chasing a chocolate chip cookie with warm milk.
“So, about Vas,” I say with exaggerated patience. “We need information.”
Napoleon lowers his drink to study me. “I like you,” he says, his breath smelling of pepper spray. “I don’t want you to get yourself killed.”
My friends and I exchange glances.
“He’s dangerous?” Felix asks.
“As dangerous as they come.” Napoleon looks around furtively. “He runs with the Filthy Bastards.”
I glance at Itzel to see if she knows what he’s talking about.
She looks just as blank as I do, and our off-world companions appear even more clueless.
Napoleon sighs deeply. “I’m talking about a gang that chose to name themselves Filthy Bastards. Do I really need to explain this further?”
Itzel’s eyebrows snap together. “I don’t care if they call themselves Abominable Rascals or Repulsive Reprobates,” she growls, leaning into Napoleon’s personal space. “This Vas person knows something about my grandfather’s disappearance, and I intend to speak with him.”
“Remind me never to let Itzel name a gang,” Felix whispers. “Rascals?”
If Napoleon minds being face to face with Itzel’s breathing mask, he doesn’t show it. “Who’s your grandfather?” he asks, seemingly offhandedly.
“You wouldn’t know him,” I say quickly. If Itzel mentions that her gramps is a famous inventor, the price of the information we seek will get a number of zeroes tacked on to it, if it hasn’t already.
