Page 2 of Ignite the Infernos

The streets of Temmeh are calm, but every sense I possess is on high alert as I weave through pedestrians and dodge the drone traffic zipping around the walkways. As cities go, this one has a failing grip on the title. The facades of the buildings have been scraped raw by one too many sandstorms. The flyways above have an enter at your own risk appeal, and the residents take great pride showing visitors why this is a place you only pass through. Temmeh is the feral little brother of all the other cities that border The Scorch. It’s an Arc-eat-Arc world down here, and if one of them doesn’t get you, the elements will.

Head on a swivel, I wind my way through several blocks. My pace is unhurried, but my heart doesn’t get the memo; it thrums harder and faster with each step toward my destination. For the thousandth time today, I run through the plan. It’s simple: Open a bank account, make a deposit, fund a credit band, and then get the fuck out of town. It’s not the wisest move for someone needing to stay off The Horde’s radar, but it’s unavoidable at this point.

I know the second my dragon blood is recorded in a bank’s system, it will flag me and they’ll come. But I need credits to get back home, and the Syphons need funds for phase two. Since I don’t trust our previous monetary channels and I can’t access the accounts Lorn gave me in the Royal Treasury, this is the best option. And as risky as this is, it will be worth it if I can pull it off.

And I will pull it off, I assure myself as the blood bank comes into view. Carefully, I study the unassuming basalt-brick exterior and the glass entrance. There aren’t more guards than usual at the bank’s entrance, and nothing else on the block seems overtly suspicious. I notice a few other cloak-wearing travelers dotted here and there, but it’s not an uncommon look in these parts, and none of them have the build or air of a drake. Everything is as quiet as I could hope for, but the moths in my stomach are in a frenzy nonetheless.

I scan the skies. A steady hum of traffic zooms by overhead, but there aren’t any weapons drones or camera bots converging on the area. I don’t spy a dragon, a lirocar, or scale armor anywhere—not that Aeson and his Wing would be so obvious if they were about to ambush me.

I approach the blood bank and check my messages for the information on the porter I hired to meet me here. A figure wearing a hooded orange top and matching armored pants exits the walkway at the same time I do. Apprehension dogs every step I take, and we watch one another as the distance between us recedes. He pulls his hood back as we draw even, and I verify that his features match the image currently projected on my com. The slight tang of sweat and the spice of this guy’s magic greet me before he does. I force myself not to take a step back as tiny alarms flare to life in my mind.

I fucking really don’t like sorcai.

“Ever?” the porter asks.

I close out of my messages and drop my arm. “Trank?” I question in return.

The sorcai’s eyebrows shoot up and he gives me a once-over. “You weren’t lying. You do smell like shit,” he grunts, not seeming all that bothered by the fact. “I’ll need your password before we go any further.”

“Pink spotted mushrooms,” I supply automatically.

Trank’s mouth lifts into a Cheshire grin. “That’s the one. What can I do for you today . . .” He leans closer and takes an exaggerated sniff. “Madam Centauride,” he declares formally with an amused arch of one eyebrow and a pointed look at my lower half, where I clearly lack the body of a horse.

I take in the sorcai. He seems too young and playful to have earned the reputation he has. Word on the sands is that he’s skilled, reliable, and will port almost anything because he’s new and still establishing himself. He’s not what I expected, but I know how stupid it is to underestimate anyone for any reason, so I don’t.

From my pack, I pull out the parcel I’ve prepared for Trank and offer it to him. He stares at me for a beat before taking it, but his eyes never leave the shadows shrouding my face.

“The list of supplies I need and the coordinates for delivery are here,” I tell him before tapping my com to the one on his wrist and awaiting the high-pitched beep that confirms the file transfer. “Instructions and payment are there,” I go on, nodding at the package in his hands. “But the access code for your costs and fee will only be given once everything is delivered and the job is done.”

Trank nods once, tucking the parcel into his top. “I know the deal, milady. You’ll have confirmation within the hour, and everything will be at the designated pickup spot.” He levels an earnest smile at me and taps the slight bulge under his top where he stashed the parcel. “Anything else?”

“No. That’s it,” I tell him. “I’m assuming I don’t need to waste my time warning you what will happen if you screw me over?”

“No, ma’am. I run a clean, honest business.”

I snicker, and his smile widens.

“You know what I mean,” he jests, and I nod and take a step back. “You’ll hear from me shortly,” Trank assures, and with that, he spins on his heel and strides away.

I watch as the sorcai rejoins the throng of pedestrians on the walkway, pulling up his orange hood before disappearing amidst the comings and goings of Temmeh’s financial district.

Relief and resignation ripple through me as I turn back toward the bank. Well, that’s one thing checked off my to-do list for the day. On to the next.

I check the time again and head for the building’s entrance. Frosty air embraces me as I stride into the placid interior of the blood bank. Unfortunately, it does nothing to pacify the moths still scrambling my insides. I don’t know what to expect as I take everything in. The only bank I’ve visited before is the Royal Treasury, and this place is nothing like that. Thankfully, everything around me looks exactly like it does in various ads I researched, so I only sort of feel like a fish out of water.

The far end of the room is a long stretch of bays, each manned by a teller ready to help customers bleed themselves dry . . . in more ways than one. There’s a polished help desk that’s staffed by a female clerk who’s giving me a trained smile, so I veer in her direction.

“Morning! Welcome to Temmeh Financial,” the clerk chirps. “How can I help you today?”

I wonder for a brief second how bad her cheeks hurt at the end of the day. “I have an appointment at nine thirty to open an account. I’m a little early,” I answer, ignoring the flash of disgust the human swiftly covers up when she gets her first whiff of me.

Her hand rises to her face, either to block her nostrils or cover her mouth, but when she realizes what she’s doing, she promptly drops it. I could take my cloak off—I really only needed it to get here—but it might be wiser to wait until I’m in the privacy of an office for that big reveal.

“Great. I’ll let Omari know you’re here. Can I offer you something to drink or hold on to anything for you while you wait?” the woman asks.

When I shake my head no, she gestures to a small seating area that’s seen better days. I drift over to the sunbaked chairs and choose the least damaged of the options to perch on. The surface of my seat is peeling and cracked, and I try not to lean too heavily on anything and make it worse. There’s an ancient magazine on a yellowing glass table in front of me that looks so desiccated and fried I wouldn’t be surprised if it spontaneously combusted any second now. I wipe away the sweat dotting my brow despite my suit working overtime to keep me nice and cool, and I wait.

My appointment time comes and goes, and I fight the need to fidget and endlessly scan my surroundings. Paranoia pecks at me, but I shoo it away. I’m fine. There’s nothing to worry about. My cloak is up. No one has pulled my biometrics. I’m a nobody as far as anyone in this building is concerned. The account manager is probably savoring a cup of coffee or taking a shit.