Chapter Text
A beeline of skycars buzzed by. Shepard and Gianna waited just past the taxi stand in their brand new evening wear, heads on a swivel as they scanned the crowds. They were only two stops from the Silversun Strip, but the transport depots were bustling; it was the weekend, and it seemed like every person under 80 was out and about. The line for a taxi went past the Ranthian Theatre, edged along the esplanade, and snaked around the corner to the entrance of a high-end liquor store. But the women weren’t waiting for a taxi. They were waiting on Detective Juarez and Detective Vakarian, who’d been unexpectedly detained by a failed stakeout in the Lower Wards. They were finally on their way with the surveillance equipment the women would need for tonight’s party.
Where on her person this equipment was supposed to go, Shepard wasn’t sure. The dress she was wearing didn’t leave a lot of room for frippery. It wouldn’t have been a problem if she’d been allowed to wear her usual work suit, but Alanya had insisted that she dress up for the event, and when your notoriously over-scheduled boss drags you to the shops, you don’t say no. The afternoon Alanya spent as her personal stylist had been the happiest Shepard ever seen her, and to her surprise, the steely asari had even managed a spontaneous smile or two.
In the end, the dress Alanya picked out was full length and off the shoulder, an emerald green gown she said would show off Shepard’s “unusual” red hair. She felt almost naked with her most of her back exposed, her décolletage too, and with the way the gauzy silk fabric slipped over her skin like a thin cloud. She’d tried to hide her shock when she saw herself in the mirror but couldn’t help but wring her hands.
“No...this is way too expensive.”
Alanya, seeing through this ruse, rolled her eyes. “Dear, I can afford almost anything in this galaxy. What I can’t afford is for my people to look shabby. My treat.”
This she followed with an explanation, emphasizing how important it was that Shepard blend in and not be conspicuous. The attendees would be wealthy clients and other moneyed and powerful types, and for the sake of ambiance, not to mention business, she needed them to feel carefree and relaxed. Humorless security stiffs sporting identical black suits and severe hairstyles weren’t going to do that. Shepard supposed that sounded plausible enough, though she secretly wondered if Alanya wasn’t just using it as an excuse to use her as a living doll for her own amusement.
Now, marked by the spotlight of the Ranthian Theatre, she was regretting her choice. She used both hands to tug uncouthly at the neckline of her dress.
“Shepard, what the hell are you doing?” Gianna slapped her hand. “Quit fidgeting with your boobs. They look fine.
“This dress is cut too low. I feel like they’re going to fall out.”
“They’re not going to fall out,” she said unsympathetically. “They’re too small for that”
“Thanks for your support.” Dressing up for the Zilald Exports job was one thing, but this dress was testing her limits.
“There. There they are,” said Gianna, leaning in to see between the heads of a tall salarian couple. She waved, and Juarez, who regularly sported five-o-clock shadow as a point of fashion, up-nodded back, his normal two-day stubble grown out into five-day scruff.
As they lumbered closer, Shepard could see they weren’t in their uniforms but in civilian wear. They looked like stowaways who’d just crawled out of the cargo hold: hunched, squinting, and a little disoriented, with a distinct aura of stagnant air and cheap takeout.
Shepard raised an eyebrow. “Everything good, gentlemen? Looking a little worse for wear.”
Detective Vakarian stopped and held onto his cowl, stretching his neck. “Sorry we’re late,” he said, rolling his head his head back and forth. “The taskmaster insisted we finish the paperwork tonight.” He stopped rolling his head and looked at Shepard. His tired eyes widened, catching the red glint of the theater’s marquee. He snorted nervously. “Hmmm, looks like we might be a little underdressed, Juarez.”
“Good evening, ladies,” said the grinning detective, who had been one step behind. “And may I say—WOW.” His mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ as he said it.
Gianna shimmied her shoulders playfully. “Why thank you, Detective.”
Detective Vakarian, meanwhile, looked as uneasy as he had on that first day in the briefing room. The plates of his face flexed, and the raptorial slant of his brow betrayed a sharp thought. There was something familiar, even furtive in his red tinged eyes. Shepard met his gaze and swallowed.
“Easy there, Juarez,” he said, his tone cool and practiced. “They’re on the clock, and so are you. Save your ogling for another day.”
Juarez shrugged. “I was just making nice.”
“Are you both ready?”
“Good as gold,” said Gianna, and Shepard agreed.
“Alright, let’s get out of here.”
Slack-jawed, Shepard walked down the aisle in a daze. She gazed up at the neatly arranged towers of vintage scotches and whiskeys, then across to the asari honey meads and turian brandy. The generous backroom of Osman’s Spirits was stockpiled with the finest alcohol from every corner of the galaxy, meticulously sourced by the store’s namesake, Osman Rad. The total value of the merchandise was enough to fund a well-stocked mining expedition or feed a small colony for a year. An unusual choice for a staging post. But it was well hidden and close enough to the casino that the detectives would have no problems jogging over if anything out of the ordinary were to happen.
Detective Vakaraian, unmoved by the abundance that surrounded him, complained that the room was too cold and clammy. The room was kept cool by necessity, to protect the many exotic and delicate flavors found in Osman’s collection. Juarez facetiously offered to cuddle for warmth, but Vakarian declined, explaining that he’d already spent 36 hours cramped inside a glorified janitor’s closet, and the last thing he wanted was to get up close and personal with someone who smelled like “cheap cologne and sour armpits”. Shepard laughed but felt bad for them both.
As she turned onto the next aisle, an enormous bottle of kurran caught her eye. The rarified elcor liquor was said to be capable of knocking a human out with one sip. Its frosted glass was encircled with a looping, gilded script she didn’t recognize, and she ran a finger over it, tracing the whorls. A delicate label displayed the translation in several languages. “Dekkuna Gold 00, 2154,” she read out loud. She scoffed. Just as old as she was. Inside, the liquid was a vitreous amber, thick like rays of golden hour distilled into a bottle.
“Damn…” she whispered.
The only time she had ever touched such an expensive bottle was the day she and some other young Reds had been goaded into raiding the cellar of Le Paradis. An initiation rite the Reds had called it. While she’d gotten away by the skin of her teeth, booking it down Bay Street on rangy ten-year-old legs, others weren’t so lucky, and it wasn’t long before burglary graduated to larceny, and larceny gave way to more serious crimes.
A sudden shot of cold air came through the vent from above, and the skin on her arms prickled in defense.
“You don’t mind this, do you?” a voice interrupted from behind.
She started. The bottles rattled under her touch. She turned to find Detective Vakarian presenting her with a small, open box held in one hand.
“No need to be scared. It’s not like I’m asking you to marry me.” She glanced down at the box, confused, and he smirked, seemingly amused at catching her off guard. “They’re just contact cams.”
She snatched the box from his open palm. “No sweat. I’ve worn these before.”
“If you need a place to clean your hands—”
It was too late. She had already removed one of the contacts and was carefully guiding it into her eye. She stood there blinking as it settled into position, and with her hand still raised to her face, the loose sleeve of her dress slid from her shoulder and down to her elbow.
From out of the marked silence, two softly spoken words: “Your dress…”
The unexpected stroke of a talon traced up her arm, and the silk of her sleeve along with it.
“Ah…it’s, uh, supposed to be like that,” she stammered. A tender warmth pulsed through her, a frisson of strange elation. “That’s the style. God knows why. It’s kind of stupid if you ask me.” Her pulse quickened. “I wasn’t the one who picked it out.”
She was disgusted at the spit of words that had just exited her mouth. He’d caught her off guard again. He was good at that. Nostrils flaring, she jabbed the other contact into her eye and let the tear that followed wash the confusion away.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he said. “For what it’s worth, it looks good on you. The dress, that is.”
“Thanks,” she replied, too overwhelmed to look him in the eyes.
“There’s one more thing.” The detective produced another box from his pocket. “We’re going to need some on-body audio, as redundancy. Do you mind?” He gestured to her bodice.
Shepard peered down, suddenly self-conscious of how exposed she was.
“Maybe it’s better if you do it yourself,” he added quickly.
She nodded and took the box with a cold, pale hand.
“Heeeey, what are you two doing back here?” Gianna had wandered into the aisle, hands clasped behind her back. She shot Shepard a curious glance.
“Just getting mic’ed up. Right, Shepard?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she fastened the tiny button to the inside of her neckline as fast as she could and looked up.
“Well, I’m done,” she said with a cagey smile. “Pitter patter lets get at’er!” She blew at the loose hair around her forehead and nudged Gianna with her shoulder as she walked past.
Before they left Osman’s, Detective Juarez reiterated their basic objectives. “Remember, you need to mingle. We’ve got eyes in a few of the public areas, but that’s it. Capture as much audio-visual as you can.”
“We’ll be here watching and listening,” said Vakarian. “If anything goes sideways—I doubt it will—you know who to call.”
“Got it, chief,” Gianna replied and shot two thumbs up.
It was cheesy, a tongue-in-cheek gesture, but she looked like a princess doing it. In her plum-colored gown and low chingon, she reminded her of the women from old movies and magazines. Gianna was breezy elegance, quick wit, and earthy humor.
As the women strolled out the door, Shepard fumbled with the evening bag Alanya had lent her “for fashion purposes.”. It was too big to hold in one hand but too small to carry over the shoulder. She needed at least one hand free to reach for the gun on her thigh. What kind of a bag didn’t have a strap? Flustered, she tucked the stupidly sized purse under her armpit and prayed she wouldn’t sweat too much.
“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, Gi,” she said when they neared the building. “I’m made for the battlefield, not a ball.” For a moment, she considered turning around and spending the rest of the night at Armax Arena. Hanging back as security was one thing, but engaging with the galaxy trotting set was another.
“Relax! You’re just doing your job. Only difference is there’s an open bar.”
“Drinking on a protection job? I don’t think that’s smart.”
“Shit,” Gianna said, sucking her teeth. “Well at least there will be some amazing hors d’oeuvres.” Coming to a stop on the esplanade, she put her hand on Shepard’s shoulder and squeezed. “Seriously, you’ll be fine. Here’s where I leave you.” She winked. “See you in the trenches. Good luck! .”
And just like that, she disappeared around the corner.
Shepard waited before following in Gianna’s footsteps. Then, after a minute or two, turned the same corner. She squared her shoulders and raised her chin as she reached the edge of the forecourt, hopeful she didn’t look out of place amongst the other guests who now flanked her at either side. Beneath the casino’s nitid facade, they were a glistening school of fish in their finest: shifts bedecked with shimmering scales; diaphanous a-lines with glass-beaded bodices; tuxedos in fine wool and structured silk, draping the body to reveal attractive silhouettes. Extravagances meant to celebrate wealth with wealth.
Little by little they swam forward, the lengths of stanchion rope funneling them along the red carpet that had been unfurled from the draped door like a long, velvety tongue. The doorman, a turian in a smart three piece, greeted Shepard as she came to the front of the line.
“Welcome to Beckmann Financial’s 20th anniversary celebration. Your invitation, please?”
A beady red eye peeked out from the gap between the drapery and the wall. It watched her as the doorman scanned her invitation.
“Coat check is located at the top of the stairs to your left. Complimentary shuttle rides will be provided at the end of the night should you need one. Please enjoy yourself, Ms. Janeway.” He tried to smile pleasantly, in the way a human would, but Shepard found the effect off-putting.
An image of Detective Vakarian smiling flashed in her mind. He didn’t smile often, and when he did, it wasn’t pleasant so much as uncanny, but she much preferred his awkward candor over the unctuousness of the doorman. Then she remembered his talon on her arm and her breath caught in her throat.
“Miss?” said the doorman. “You may go in now.”
“Oh, yes. Of course.”
The doorman stepped aside and she walked past the velvet curtain. The beady red eye turned out to belong to a krogan bouncer; krogans always seemed to be snarling, but this one was extra surly. Despite Alanya’s logic regarding security, she recognized the need for strategic optics. Gotta keep the poors out, Shepard supposed.
She stared up at the casino’s vast staircase, its steps sheathed by the same red carpet from outside. She could make out the scent of something light and powdery, and the dulcet beats of ambient music issuing from upstairs. Above, in the air of the open rotunda, a collection of enormous silver orbs gently bobbed, trumpeting wishy-washy bromides like “20 Years of Excellence” and “Financing the Future”, or Shepard’s favorite, “Beckmann Financial: Infinite Worlds, Infinite Possibilities”.
She twisted her mouth. This whole affair made her strangely nervous, a feeling that baffled her. She was ex-military. She’d experienced every kind of danger imaginable, always with a steady hand and a clear mind. Now, her stomach was puckering into itself and her feet were frozen to the floor. She could only watch as other guests ascended the stairs. They glided past, some arm in arm, others conversing in hushed tones, all arriving at the landing with someone in tow. Alanya’s RSVP had provided a section for a “plus one”, but Shepard, predictably, had left it blank. Inviting a guest to an operation was out of the question. There wasn’t anyone to ask anyway; going solo had been her default mode for so long that she didn’t even consider it.
“Everything okay there, Shepard?” Detective Vakarian’s voice abruptly broke her illusion of solitude. “You’ve been standing in the same place for at least a minute.”
“Mmm,” she hummed, unable to explain anything with the bouncer nearby. Not that she was willing to be honest.
Still staring up, she lifted the hem of her dress and began to ascend, though taking delicate steps in an evening gown was hard to manage when you were used to swift, purposeful strides. A hand to hold sounded like a nice thing to have right now.
When she reached the top, she was greeted by two elegant asari in matching evening wear. They handed each guest a drawn velvet bag—a gift bag, presumably—embroidered with the Beckmann logo. Shepard thanked them, now clutching the velvet bag and her cumbersome purse, and stepped into the breadth of the rotunda. Its back wall was an arc of blooms in pastels and whites, the kinds of lush flower arrangements normally sent as congratulatory gifts.
She surveyed the floor. To her left, an open bar. From the looks of it, they’d already been serving guests. The seats in the lounge were full and both bartenders were pouring. To her right, a host of tables all dressed up for the scheduled formal dinner. In fact, the entire east wing had been reconfigured for the event, a detail she didn’t miss when Alanya’s assistant had given her the rundown on what to expect for the evening.
She was already walking toward the wall of flowers when Detective Vakarian asked her to check on who had sent them. Feigning interest in the fragrant blooms, she brought her nose close and sniffed as she read the attached cards. She recognized most of the names, either clients or business partners, some from friends, even a couple of mid-level politicians, but the card attached to the centerpiece had not been signed. The enormous golden hoop made for an eye-catching backdrop: snow white orchids and ivory roses woven through with bay leaves and bells of Ireland, the stuff of dream weddings.
Shepard quietly read the note out loud. “Congrats and thanks for everything. I owe you - B”.
“B?” said Juarez.
Vakarian’s voice thrummed in her ear. “Hmm…could that be Byron? You said Cornath had mentioned the name. Did you ever confirm an identity, Shepard?”
She opened her mouth to speak but felt the presence of someone behind her.
“Ellen! Look at you, you look amazing!” said a woman’s voice. She turned around. It was Sarissa, Alanya’s other bodyguard.
“Oh, um, thanks. You too,” she said uneasily. “Where’s Alanya?”
Sarissa gestured toward the bar with a cocktail in hand. “Oh, don’t worry, it’s just a spritzer. Though, now that you’re here I might have to have something a little spicy before I go.”
“Anything I need to know before the hand off?”
Sarissa took a long sip as she glanced over at Alanya. “Goddess, don’t get on her bad side today. Nearly tore my crest out for being late. I don’t know what happened, but she’s been in a mood since Clay showed up at their place completely trashed. There was a lot of shouting. And I’m pretty sure someone threw something.”
“Jesus…”
“Like I said, tread lightly.”
“Thanks for the heads up.”
“You’ve still got, what…” Sarissa looked up at the wall. “Thirty more minutes ‘til you’re on duty? Why not play some tables? Mingle, meet someone nice. Plenty of rich singles here tonight. Or join us at the bar?”
Shepard rubbed a hand over her cinched belly. “I might just find some food. I think my stomach’s been eating itself.”
Sarissa laughed. “Always thinking with your stomach, Janeway. I’ll leave you to it then. Catch up later.” She waved her pretty blue fingers and sailed back to the bar.
“You know, there’s a catering table at the upstairs bar.” Detective Vakarian had cut in without missing a beat. “It’s mostly levo stuff, but the food looks good. Might sate you until dinner.”
“Gianna’s there too, talking to some lady who just said—get this—‘poor people are poor because don’t know how to invest.’” Juarez snorted, then apologized for the non-sequitur. “I mean, come on! The fuckin’ nerve, right?”
That sounded perfectly abhorrent. While it was true she’d forgotten to eat before she left the apartment, her priority was to circulate and observe attendees. There would be plenty of time to eat during tonight’s six course meal. Besides, Gianna had it covered. She had the patience and wherewithal to deal with these people where Shepard didn’t.
After abandoning her cumbersome purse and gift bag at coat check, she made her way to the casino floor. It was surprisingly busy. The room smelled of rich wine and jaunty cocktails. Players and spectators alike crowded the varren races, half empty glasses tipped in their swirling hands as they stifled their excitement and heated curses, verboten as it was to draw attention to oneself at a high-stakes table.
A server, who had been circulating the room with a platter of hor d'oeuvres, stopped in front of her.
“Would you care for hor d'oeuvres, ma’am? Levo friendly.” With one hand held stiffly behind his back, he held the platter out to her with the other.
She stared at the peculiar bites of food. They looked like miniature tacos stuffed with red cotton candy and something that looked like caviar, only bigger, viscid, and much greener.
“Um, what is it?”
“Taler. An asari canapé made with”—he pointed to each component as he spoke—“edava cake, savory runis floss, a hint of scullup jelly, and topped with hand-harvested, sustainable turrut eggs from the Zelara coast. ”
The barrage of words rattled in Shepard’s head, and she smiled stupidly, not having any idea what any of them meant. “Sure, why not. I’ll give it a whirl.”
The server tugged a napkin out from under the platter and passed it to her. She hesitated, unsure of how taler was meant to be eaten. The server cleared his throat and smiled politely.
Before she could ask, she was rescued by Vakarian’s assuring voice. “You’re meant to pinch it between your fingers and eat it in one bite. But don’t slurp the turrut, it’s considered rude.”
She pinched a taler from the platter as daintily as she could and popped it into her mouth.
“Amazing, right?” said the detective encouragingly. “Never been able to try it myself, but I’ve been told it’s delicious.”
The turrut eggs, far from being slimy as she’d expected, burst in her mouth to release a pleasant zestiness. Together with the texture of the floss and the floral sweetness of the edava, it made for a symphony of sensations she'd never experienced before. How had she gone so many years without knowing food could taste this good? Boy, Gianna wasn’t kidding.
“These are amazing,” she said to the server, who bowed slightly.
She snatched up another taler and chomped as she watched the races, or, more accurately, the people playing them. Most of the faces were familiar. They were people she had seen come and go at Nazura and Danis, others she recognized from Alanya’s social orbit. There was Dakni Kur, the volus merchant from Illium, and his business partner Pitne For. Kur was nice enough, though a little meek, but For was a bull-headed ass in Shepard’s opinion, shady even. For, however, was small fry compared to Nara T'Meva. The CFO of Synthetic Insights was easily worth thirty Pitne Fors. She was just leaving the room, with her beautiful wife draped on her arm and enough winnings to play all night and well into the morning.
Shepard had already taken a third canapé when she realized she didn’t know the protocol—ettiquette?—for passed hor d'oeuvres. Was it rude to eat more than one? Did she need to ask first? She glanced at the server, searching his face for clues, but he only stared back blankly and smiled with closed lips.
“It’s considered impolite to wolf down appetizers. I’d lay off until another server comes around.” He’d read her mind, the turian angel in her ear.
A little embarrassed, she thanked the server and ducked out of the room. There hadn’t been much conversation happening anyway. The guests were too ensconced in the dramatic turns of gambling, and what little she did overhear was simple gossip, comprising the usual topics of status and minor personal drama.
Across the way, in the roulette room, things were a little more interesting. Here, stakes were high and faces less familiar. She stationed herself at one of the quasar machines, picking out conversation in the ambient noise of the room.
“Oh? We just closed on a new unit there. The beaches are to die for. Quiet, private, gorgeous white sand, great service. Much better than Rilum. Too many of the wrong sort coming through there these days, you know what I mean?”
“Oh yeah. Tartus and I have talked about selling our place there. We’ve been hanging onto it, but the taxes are just awful. We’re having it professionally managed until we figure out what to do. Save it for the grandkids? I don’t know, I’ll let the adviser sort it out.”
The incessant blip of the quasar machine was beginning to grate on her nerves. Who in the world actually liked to play this? It was mindless, a drowsy game of chicken and statistics. As she hit the button for payout, she caught a glimpse of something from the corner of her eye—a lean figure near the back wall, just outside the spotlight shining from above. The silhouette of a drell man. She glanced at him. He was alone. No food or drink in hand, he was gripping his lapels and watching the roulette table with great interest.
This piqued her attention. It wasn’t often you encountered drell on the Citadel, and never at a function like this. Most of them didn’t have the social capital, or capital, to be invited. It was possible he was one of the casino’s floormen, or another plain clothes bodyguard, but there was nothing ‘plain’ about his appearance at all. She knew right away his tuxedo was bespoke—given away by its tailored fit and subtle sheen, with distinctive coattails that hung down in that stylish, bygone way.
Still curious, she crossed to the roulette table and purchased a stack of chips.
“Hittin’ the big time now!” Detective Juarez teased over the comm.
“Don’t jinx it,” said Vakarian. “You know how to play roulette, right, Shepard?”
Shepard smirked. She may not have known which fork was used for fruit or which for fish, or what a blue chip was, but gambling was one thing she did understand. You don’t spend a childhood on the streets without encountering that timeless staple of the criminal underground.
“Red, ” she called curtly, and placed her bet on outside red.
After two more guests placed their chips, the croupier called “no more bets” and released the ball. Shepard looked up, pretending to watch the numbers flick by. She could see the keen drell through the holoscreen; he caught her looking at him and pursed his thick lips.
The ball came to a rest at 19. Red. A man with snow-white hair clapped slowly and congratulated the woman next to him, who, from the looks of it, was either his daughter or his date. She couldn’t tell which.
Chips doubled and confidence boosted, she upped the ante and placed a column bet. A less conservative move, yes, but the payout was twice as much. The other woman did the same and put up everything she had—a good shotgun’s worth by Shepard’s estimate—placing her bet on a different column of numbers.
With a coquettish smile, the woman folded her hands on the table. These were the slender, milky hands of someone whose distal bones had never been crushed under a boot, who’d never dug an emergency latrine in the middle of no man’s land with nothing but a standard issue folding shovel.
The results turned up in Shepard’s favor. The woman scoffed under her breath, in apparent disbelief that she should have a turn of bad luck. Her companion wrapped his arm around her waist, squeezed it tight, and kissed her on the cheek, saying “don’t worry, bunny, it’s just some play money is all”, then whisked her away to the varren races. There was one question answered. As for the other, Shepard was beginning to feel like she’d seen this drell man before. Something about him was familiar. His iridescent blue-green skin, the wide dome of his brow. Or, most strikingly, the way he stood stick straight, like a figurine posed on a shelf.
“Nice move, Shepard,” said Vakarian as she collected her winnings. She’d nearly forgotten he was watching. “If you win big, you owe us all a meal. It’s only fair.”
A faint smile crossed her face.
The drell, who was now watching more intently, responded in kind. She raised her eyebrows. The smile hadn’t been meant for him, but there was no harm in letting him think so.
Shepard played and won two more rounds, each with increasing odds against her. A small group of onlookers had gathered, attracted by the jabbering of an overly enthusiastic—read: tipsy—salarian who’d joined her at the table. Her anxiety was beginning to fade. She was relaxing into the moment, emboldened by her streak, roused by the other guests, and she didn’t want it to end.
“I think it’s time to try a row,” she said confidently to herself. She spread a good chunk of her chips evenly across 4,5, and 6. Wide mouth loose and noodly, the tipsy salarian held his glass up to her and beamed, then shoved his own hoard, every chip he had, into the corners of the board for a square bet.
The croupier released the ball. It glowed white like a tiny comet as it whizzed around the rim, circling and circling at an even pitch, lowering as it slowed, until finally it fell out of orbit and plinked into its destined slot.
“16,” called the dealer. A collective “aww” droned about the table.
“Damn,” Shepard hissed quietly. Engrossed in their little drama just moments ago, the onlookers began to scatter, seemingly bored now that the players had bottomed out. The salarian man shrugged and tossed back the rest of his drink.
“Better luck next time, hmm?” he said, slapping his empty glass to the table. “This game’s rigged anyway.”
He left the room, and Shepard picked up her dwindled stack of chips—now less than what she’d started with—clicking them together as she thought over her plays. She studied the numbers on the table.
The answer was simple: she’d let herself become overconfident. A rookie mistake. That was that, she supposed. She shouldn’t be wasting anymore time. There were other parts of the casino to attend to and other people to observe.
Her chips were still on the table when the croupier forbade more bets. She’d have to wait to cash out until the round was over.
“That was a risky move you made.”
Shepard snapped her head over her shoulder. The drell gentleman was half a step away, staring with his unfathomably ink black eyes, like pools without reflection.
“You know what they say, high risk, high reward,” she said, turning around.
“Oh I’m not criticizing. But if I may make a suggestion?”
“What’s that?”
Hands clasped behind his back, he leaned in and whispered in her ear. “Try 11.” The serrated vibrato of his voice sent a slick heat stealing up her spine.
“Straight up? Those odds are worse.”
“I’ve played a lot of games in my life,” he said confidently. “Games of chance. Luck may be a fickle mistress, but sometimes you have to lose big to win.”
Horse shit. But she wasn’t about to argue with him, not now. This was the perfect opportunity to investigate her mysterious guest.
“I’ve been watching you…”
“You have, have you?” Shepard interjected.
He stepped even closer, close enough that she caught the aroma of something on his skin, undertones of ripe figs and amber, charred cedar. He nodded slowly in reply.
The cocktail of scents scratched at her brain. She was trying to remember what it was when their intimate moment was cut off by her comm.
“Who’s the smooth talker?” asked Juarez.
“Smooth? A little too smooth if you ask me,” said Vakarian, sounding vaguely contemptuous. “Never seen him before. You, Shepard?”
She shook her head in a light, playful manner to make it look natural. “Alright, I’ll bite,” she said to the drell. “What do I have to lose?”
With the gentleman at her shoulder, she placed her remaining chips on 11 at the center of the board. Again, the tiny ball made its speedy orbit around the wheel, and like Shepard, was brought back down to earth by the inexorable force of natural consequence.
“11,” called the croupier.
She wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes. There they were, two ones standing side by side on a red square.
“I’ll be damned—” She turned around, but he was gone. She hadn’t even caught his name.
The turian woman next to her canted her head to indicate her congratulations. She had a healthy supply of chips and looked like she might be settling in for the long haul.
The croupier swept away the losing chips and slid Shepard her winnings.
“I think I’ll cash out,” she said, and peered around the room for the drell man.
He wasn’t there. The moment her payout came through, she headed straight to the bar. Not there. Not in the rotunda either. She scolded herself. She’d let herself get caught up in the moment and she’d lost him. How had he gotten away so fast? It was as if he’d melted into the wall or sunk into the floor.
Shepard stood in the rotunda and whispered to her invisible companions. “Did you see where that drell went?”
“I don’t see him,” said Vakarian.
“Not upstairs,” said Juarez. “Gianna confirms.”
“Damn.”
She hurried to the varren races and scanned the tables. No drell. She wandered into a connecting hallway. No drell. She continued to what appeared to be a dead end, a hidden lounge area at the back of the casino. She approached the threshold to enter but was stopped by a balding security guard with big biceps and a slight pooch.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, this is a private area,” he said, holding up a hand.
“Right, sorry.” Her gaze fell over his shoulder and into the lounge. No sign of him there either. She gave the guard a hollow smile, then caught a whiff of something in the air. There was that rich scent again, faint but discernible. A memory slowly began to resurface.
“If you’re looking for the ladies’ room, it’s back that way and to the right,” said the guard, gesturing.
“Oh, yes…right, of course. Thanks.”
Shepard began to walk away, then stopped as she turned the corner.
“The auction,” she blurted.
“What?” said Vakarian belatedly.
"The drell," she said more quietly. "He was at Alanya’s charity gala. I only saw him for a moment, but he and Claywere arguing about something and then he disappeared.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
There was a long silence.
“We need to find him. Now."