Page 6 of Prey It By Ear

“Patience is a virtue,” I murmur to myself as I wait for the appropriate time to pass so I can leave. “Do not allow the restlessness of your soul to inform how you complete your assignment.”

Talking to myself isn’t exactly ‘normal’, especially in the bathroom, but adrenaline is making my gargoyle antsy.

Once I believe I’ve given my ploy enough time, I flush the toilet and run the water, and then exit the bathroom to head down the opposite end from where our car is.

The Director should be staying in the elite cabins as we are, but I know those are not full. I suspect the only other one that is occupied is Chester’s target, as she seems like the kind of pred who would not travel in anything but the highest luxury possible. The Shirdals are not nearly as wealthy as other families like ma petite’s, but they are influential enough to demand things and be accommodated. It is especially true if she truly holds debuts in the arts in the palm of her genteel palms; even this company can benefit from using her name as a frequent rider in their marketing.

I walk through the hallway to the next car, noting that it is the beginning of the cabins that are expensive enough to dine with us, but are not the gilded suites. There are twice as many, and I can tell by looking at their entries that they are significantly smaller. Two doors in the middle of the car are marked as bathrooms, but I believe they’re likely for showering only. The guests in this area do not have private ones, but they are separate from the next level down ticket holders.

The caste systems everyone puts on one another are exhausting even as I view them, much less living them.

“You are part of the charmed ones, despite the exile,” I mutter to myself as I continue to the next car. Glancing around as I enter, I realize this is the lower-tier dining car, and it makes me blink in surprise. It’s more than a step down, and the tickets in those classes aren’t exactly cheap, just not stupidly expensive. “Merde⁠*.”

A tired-looking bartender at the small bar in the corner hears me and chuckles. “May I serve you a drink, sir?”

I let out a slow breath, grateful that he doesn’t seem concerned that I’m coming in here from the other end of the train. Squealing on me to the patrons here would have been a shitty way to accuse me of being somewhere he didn’t think I belonged, which bodes well for extracting a little tea from him. “Oui, I would like that very much.”

Walking over, I sit on one of the markedly uncomfortable stools and settle in. He asks for my order, and I request a scotch and soda, noting that even the quality of the liquor available isn’t on par with our dining area. These people definitely believe that no one who can afford a higher fare will venture this far down the train—ever.

“Couldn’t help sneaking up to see how the other half lives, eh?”

Shit. He is going to make a deal out of it, but after I’ve ensured he’ll get a tip—what a dick.

“Just stretching my legs,” I reply smoothly.

My bartender is a human with rusty hair and freckles, young enough to make me think this is a new job and he probably doesn’t understand that calling out your customers isn’t the smartest way to make money. On a mode of transport like the Simplion, he won’t last very long if he doesn’t learn, but it’s not my problem to solve. I have other goals, and his loose lips might give me the information I seek.

Once my drink appears, I take a sip as he hands me the slip to bill it to my room. When I fill out the paper, his eyes widen as he takes in the number. My lips curve up, and I shrug at his aghast expression. “Sometimes the atmosphere is quieter in a less pressure-filled environment.”

Nodding as he shoves the tab receipt in a shot glass, he clears his throat. “Sorry about that, sir. I didn’t mean to offend.”

I wave my hand as if it’s nothing, smiling to relax him. “Non, my friend. You probably see that very thing several times a day; as much as I enjoy escaping the glitterati, others enjoy spying on it.”

“Hell yes,” he replies with a relieved grin. “I’m not one to tattle on anyone if they don’t seem like they’ll bother our VIPs. Curiosity is a bitch, you know? Few places allow you to slip through the cracks to get a peep of how the other half lives.”

They shouldn’t be able to get past the public bathrooms I first hid in, but that gives me security information I did not have before.

“Understood. Alas, I am not famous, only stupidly wealthy by birth.” I grin back at him before taking another drink. “It’s more boring than people would imagine, unfortunately. I spend a great deal of time at snooze-worthy events avoiding the stuffiest people you’ll ever meet.”

He wipes the bar for a moment, leaning in after he does so. “We get a lot of that, but sometimes we have really famous people. I guess the train is less crowded with fans than an airport, huh? I don’t recognize all of them, and oddly, neither does much of the staff. But our managers always know when we should overcompensate on service somehow. Weird, huh?”

Forcing a laugh, I shrug again as I realize the staff is definitely mostly human, and the management must be mostly supernatural. That does cut down on their sneaking into rooms to rummage for souvenirs, I suppose. If the humans have no idea who their customers in the VIP cabins are, they have no desire to seek collectibles or autographs. “Middle management is always the barrier between the rich and the staff in my experience. They take orders just like you, though.”

Dolly would be quite pleased with my efforts in this role, I think. I will have to tell her about it later.

“Ain’t that the truth. They get paid more, but I doubt I’d want their jobs. Being yelled at by the muckety-mucks and by the pissy VIPs has to give you an ulcer,” the kid says. “Someday, maybe, but right now? I’m not interested in that kind of heat.”

I nod sagely, looking around the dining area. “This car is for the lower-level ticket holders, right? Those aren’t so cheap that you’re handling anyone who isn’t a little rich. They have to afford this train, and that’s not a bargain-basement cost.”

He tilts his head at my drink. “Top it off, Mr…?”

“Oh! Yes, please. My name is Duchamps. And you are?” I lie carefully, not wanting my surname to give away my heritage if any supernaturals are within hearing range. The bartender won’t know, but I’d prefer to stay on the down-low for the moment.

“Chip Grayson. This is my summer job while I’m at school over here.” He reaches for the scotch and pours, giving me more than he should. “Nice to meet ya, Mr. Duchamps.”

“And you, Chip,” I say as I raise my glass in a mini-salute. “So what’s interesting in this neck of the woods? I do love to hear the… tea, as my little sister puts it.”

Lie upon lie as if I’m spinning a web—Felix will also be impressed, especially since I’m still recovering from reconnecting with my clutch.