Free Relic by Renee Collins Page B
Authors: Renee Collins
Adelaide turned her back to them. Eddie ran his hands up the piano keys in a dramatic glissando, and Adelaide tossed the robe in the air. It burst into a flash of white flames and was gone. Naturally, this only made the men crazier.
Adelaide spun around, dressed in a crimson corset with a skirt only a few inches long in the front that swept back to a fashionable bustle. The whole outfit was styled to suggest the form of a phoenix. Her blond hair was piled high on her head with a red ostrich feather gleaming in it and a red choker wrapped around her slender neck.
A plum-sized oval of gold gleamed from the center of her bodice. A relic. Phoenix bone, sewn right into her costume. Adelaide stroked the mirror-like piece and winked at the audience, looking scandalous but undeniably beautiful. The other girls came on behind her, kicking their legs in the air, and the number went on. I smiled and shook my head as I turned back to my work. Adelaide certainly knew how to put on a show.
Tom passed me, cradling a tray of empty dishes on his arm. “Them high rollers need more dragon whiskey.”
I looked over at the secluded table tucked into a shadowy corner of the saloon, the usual haunt of the wealthy and powerful in the valley. Immediately, I could tell something was amiss. For starters, not a single man there was watching Adelaide’s dance. And while there were cards and poker chips on the tabletop, no one was playing. Instead, they all bent in to speak over the noise, their faces stone serious. And none other than Álvar Castilla sat at the head of the table.
Usually when he came into the saloon, it was with a raucous group of young Haciendos like himself. They drank and laughed and flirted with the prettiest of the dancers. Tonight, however, Álvar seemed all business.
“Whiskey,” Tom snapped, breaking my reverie. He was grouchier than usual tonight.
“Easy now,” I said. “I’m goin’.” Tom snorted and tromped off to the back room.
I smoothed the sweaty strands of hair from my face and surveyed the high rollers’ table again. Álvar spoke to the men with intensity, making tight gestures with his hands. He looked a little more ruffled than I’d seen him last. His black hair was damp with sweat. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his white silk shirt, and his vest was unbuttoned.
A stranger seated beside him caught my eye. He was stroking his bearded face and eyeing Álvar with unease. He was older, mid-fifties perhaps, and he was huge—tall and bulky as a bear. He wasn’t from Burning Mesa, that much I knew. The man reeked of money. It gleamed on his countenance. From the rich, beaver fur–lined coat to the sparkling diamond cuff links on his sleeve to the oiled perfection of his brown hair.
But more than any of that, I noticed the egg-sized relic that topped his walking cane. It gleamed pale yellow, like a piece of moon. Werewolf bone. Not only dazzlingly rare and expensive, but highly illegal. They had once been used by soldiers for the surge of strength and speed they created within the wielder, but the viciousness and bloodlust that inevitably took over proved too hard to keep under control. And too dangerous in the hands of the wrong kind of people. As shadow relics, they had not only been banned, but the government had confiscated most of them long ago. Though I was learning that if you were rich enough, nothing was off-limits.
Keeping an eye on the wealthy stranger, I got the top-shelf dragon whiskey from our bartender.
“Smits,” I asked as he laid the glistening amber bottle in my hand, “who’s that man with Álvar? The filthy rich one.”
Smits adjusted his spectacles and peered over at the high rollers’ table. “Oh, him? That’s Emerson Bolger. He’s some big relic tycoon. Owns half of the mining companies in the Colorado Territory.”
“Does he own the mines here?”
“No, but he sure as hell wants to.”
Smits went back to his work, and I cautiously approached the high rollers.
Adelaide spun around, dressed in a crimson corset with a skirt only a few inches long in the front that swept back to a fashionable bustle. The whole outfit was styled to suggest the form of a phoenix. Her blond hair was piled high on her head with a red ostrich feather gleaming in it and a red choker wrapped around her slender neck.
A plum-sized oval of gold gleamed from the center of her bodice. A relic. Phoenix bone, sewn right into her costume. Adelaide stroked the mirror-like piece and winked at the audience, looking scandalous but undeniably beautiful. The other girls came on behind her, kicking their legs in the air, and the number went on. I smiled and shook my head as I turned back to my work. Adelaide certainly knew how to put on a show.
Tom passed me, cradling a tray of empty dishes on his arm. “Them high rollers need more dragon whiskey.”
I looked over at the secluded table tucked into a shadowy corner of the saloon, the usual haunt of the wealthy and powerful in the valley. Immediately, I could tell something was amiss. For starters, not a single man there was watching Adelaide’s dance. And while there were cards and poker chips on the tabletop, no one was playing. Instead, they all bent in to speak over the noise, their faces stone serious. And none other than Álvar Castilla sat at the head of the table.
Usually when he came into the saloon, it was with a raucous group of young Haciendos like himself. They drank and laughed and flirted with the prettiest of the dancers. Tonight, however, Álvar seemed all business.
“Whiskey,” Tom snapped, breaking my reverie. He was grouchier than usual tonight.
“Easy now,” I said. “I’m goin’.” Tom snorted and tromped off to the back room.
I smoothed the sweaty strands of hair from my face and surveyed the high rollers’ table again. Álvar spoke to the men with intensity, making tight gestures with his hands. He looked a little more ruffled than I’d seen him last. His black hair was damp with sweat. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his white silk shirt, and his vest was unbuttoned.
A stranger seated beside him caught my eye. He was stroking his bearded face and eyeing Álvar with unease. He was older, mid-fifties perhaps, and he was huge—tall and bulky as a bear. He wasn’t from Burning Mesa, that much I knew. The man reeked of money. It gleamed on his countenance. From the rich, beaver fur–lined coat to the sparkling diamond cuff links on his sleeve to the oiled perfection of his brown hair.
But more than any of that, I noticed the egg-sized relic that topped his walking cane. It gleamed pale yellow, like a piece of moon. Werewolf bone. Not only dazzlingly rare and expensive, but highly illegal. They had once been used by soldiers for the surge of strength and speed they created within the wielder, but the viciousness and bloodlust that inevitably took over proved too hard to keep under control. And too dangerous in the hands of the wrong kind of people. As shadow relics, they had not only been banned, but the government had confiscated most of them long ago. Though I was learning that if you were rich enough, nothing was off-limits.
Keeping an eye on the wealthy stranger, I got the top-shelf dragon whiskey from our bartender.
“Smits,” I asked as he laid the glistening amber bottle in my hand, “who’s that man with Álvar? The filthy rich one.”
Smits adjusted his spectacles and peered over at the high rollers’ table. “Oh, him? That’s Emerson Bolger. He’s some big relic tycoon. Owns half of the mining companies in the Colorado Territory.”
“Does he own the mines here?”
“No, but he sure as hell wants to.”
Smits went back to his work, and I cautiously approached the high rollers.