With Renholm gone and no sign of Cal, I stashed my gear in the Soul Vault, via Armor Evocation, and switched into the more modest, but comfortable, clothes Maggie had left on the bed for me: a pair of dark linen trousers, a cotton shirt with an accompanying woven belt, and a pair of soft leather shoes with no real soles, held shut with a thin leather string that wrapped around the ankle. I tried not to think about the fact that Renholm had shagged the blue energy sprite on top of my stuff, but it was a hard thing to forget.

I’d seen a lot of disturbing things that day, but that was right at the top of the list. But unless I wanted to risk leaving my armor, weapons, coins, and Affinity Scales lying around, I didn’t have another option. So, gear safely and securely stowed in the Vault and my room tidy enough to pass muster, I made my way from the inn.

God but I was ready for a good long soak.

What I wasn’t ready for was a wooden cathedral dedicated to the art of cleanliness.

I was met at the entry to the bathhouse by a young woman in a simple white shift who directed me to a changing area. Waiting for me in the secluded room were two towels folded on a wooden chair. I stepped out of my trousers, slung one towel around my waist, and held the other, only a little larger than a facecloth, in my hand. The changing room doors at the far end of the room let out into a lavish spread of soaking pools, natural waterfall-driven showers, several steam rooms, and a row of low stools lined up against a tiled wall accented with teal.

Another female attendant—her head down, her eyes averted—silently ushered me to the stools and followed behind me. Too close for comfort. I wasn’t in the habit of bathing with supervision, but it appeared I didn’t have a choice. She gestured to the three-legged stool and knelt on the floor beside me as I sat. There was a bucket and a wooden ladle, which she filled and refilled while she sudsed, rinsed, then scraped me clean. She expertly wielded a wooden stick, not unlike a backscratcher, which she used on my hands and feet and then, most luxuriously, my entire back from the base of my skull all the way down to my butt.

I wasn’t too manly to admit that it felt like a slice of heaven. This was some well-deserved pampering.

There wasn’t anything sexual about the process, which was surprising. If you’d told me a month earlier that I’d allow a pretty stranger to soap and rinse me without there being any kind of tomfoolery involved I’d have laughed in your face but there was something about the way she held herself—poised, aloof, contained in her work—that signaled that this was an act of great service. These people took bathing as seriously as a heart attack. She had the good grace to let me clean my own junk, and even had the courtesy to look away as I tended to the ol’ undercarriage.

Once I was done, she confiscated both my towels. I’d been using them incorrectly her gestures said. The larger one was now dirty and couldn’t be employed for its intended purpose. She handed me a new set.

“The small towel is for modesty,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “The larger for later when you dry yourself, Vigil.” With that she left.

I found the hooks for the towels and let myself into the nearest steam room. I don’t know how I didn’t realize that the entire place was co-ed until I was sitting next to a woman who had beads of sweat rolling down her chest, but it had somehow slipped my notice. Probably because I was weary to the bone and had spent most of the day fighting for my life and gutting monsters. That kind of shit takes a toll on anyone.

There were four women and two men lounging contently in the steam room, none of whom seemed to be related by either blood or marriage. They surveyed each other with a mix of indifference and inspection that said this was their everyday normal.

Wild. Sort of reminded me of that scene out of Starship Troopers, where all the military cadets showered together. I’d loved the flick as a teenager, but I never—not in a million years—would’ve imagined that I’d get to live through my own version of it. Shit, in the Marine Corps, we’d be lucky to so much as see a female Marine in the mess hall. The idea of having one take a steam with me was a notion from a different planet.

I relaxed back, letting the tension ease out of my aching muscles as a mixture of steam and sweat sluiced over my skin and puddled beneath my feet. I caught more than a few interested looks from the women, though the interest always seemed to fade when their gaze brushed across my burning red eyes and the mark on my forehead. Once again, I was reminded that although Vigils were tolerated by most people—perhaps even celebrated—they were equally feared. I’d received looks like that before, back in Iraq before the push into Fallujah that had cost me my life.

Iraqi children, covered in dusty clothes, would often stare up at me in that same way—respect mingling with awe, all undercut by a strong current of fear. We were there to liberate, to help, but sometimes it was hard to know whether we were the good guys or the bad guys. This felt the same.

One of the men—a short, balding, portly man with a great handlebar mustache—leaned forward over his considerable girth and rested his forearms on his thighs as he openly regarded me. He had a thick golden chain slung around his neck; dangling from the end was a pendant marked with a scale. He also had fat gold rings on every single finger, some capped with diamonds, others with rubies or emeralds. The guy had money and he wasn’t afraid to flaunt it.

“You’re the Vigil Bound, aren’t you?” he said, voice rather gruff. Then before I could answer he extended a pudgy, glistening hand. Gross. “I’m Gustav Hultgren, the High Magistrate of Ironmoor.”

It was awkward shaking hands while naked and sweaty, but when in Rome. I took the slippery palm in my own and gave it a firm pump.

“Pleasure,” I said, though it really wasn’t. There was a time and place for networking, and the steam room wasn’t it.

“Must say, I’m surprised to find you here,” he said, before leaning back with a chuckle.

“Why’s that?” I asked, tilting my head to one side.

He froze, a deer caught in headlights. “Ah. Well, you know what they say about your kind…” He trailed off, looking rather uncomfortable. Like someone who’d just told an offensive joke that hadn’t landed well.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what they say,” I replied flatly.

Boy were we off to a rough start, and it was only going downhill. Not that I really cared. I’d met plenty of people like Gustav before—smug, self-important, with a major superiority complex. He radiated bad vibes. Not to mention, his name had been on the invitation Renholm had lifted off Sigge Wikstrum, the alchemist. No way that was a coincidence.

“Why don’t you enlighten me,” I finished.

He shifted awkwardly then cleared his throat. “Well, they say you lot are savages. Sleeping in ditches and caves as often as cities. Just an old joke.”

“Haha,” I replied, face completely deadpan.

“You’re making quite the splash already,” Gustav said, forging on through the social blunder and doing his best to salvage this train wreck of a conversation. “Word is you’ve already cleared out a troubling Mortka infestation less than a day from our beloved city. Grass Hounds, I believe.”

“You’ve got good sources,” I said.

“Word travels fast,” he said, offering me a smile. He was back on better footing now, feeling more sure of himself. “In truth there’s very little that happens in this city that I don’t know about.” He thumbed his nose conspiratorially. “I’ve got my finger on the pulse of the whole city and make a point of staying connected with all the most well-respected and influential people of Ironmoor and beyond. Speaking of, I’m having a small soiree three evenings hence at my manor in the Inner City—Pithom Row. Having a Vigil attend would delight everyone, I’m sure. It’s not often we have someone such as you in our midst.”

“A filthy savage, you mean?” I suggested bluntly.

He didn’t respond but looked as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

“The heat is quite getting to me,” he finally said, standing. “This Friday, six bells, though feel free to show up fashionably late. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He mopped at his face with a towel and exited before I could ask any more questions or make any more embarrassing remarks. The other people in the room followed him out in short order, making me think they were all attachés or lackeys of some sort.

I stayed behind, stewing on the interaction.

Sigge Wikstrum was still on the top of my list, but Gustav Hultgren wasn’t far beneath him.

The magistrate didn’t seem like a shapeshifting monster in disguise—he struck me as a human monster who wasn’t trying to hide what he was at all. He was an aristocratic turd that had floated to the top of the toilet bowl. But even if he wasn’t the Changeling, my gut told me that he knew more than he was letting on. Looked like Renholm’s tip had paid off after all.

When I couldn’t stand the heat any longer, I left the steam room behind and plunged into the cooling pool outside the doors. That pool was also occupied, though this time the company was far more pleasant.

I found myself sitting across from the singer from the inn. Her hair was piled high on her head, and she had opted to forgo the use of the “modesty towel,” much to my enjoyment. She was, without question, one the most beautiful women I’d ever laid eyes on. Her breasts bobbed high in the water. Her neck was long and slender, her skin pale and flawless. She opened her eyes and smiled, her teeth white and perfectly straight, then stood slowly, revealing a wisp-thin waist and legs that went on forever and a day.

I did my best not to stare, but I didn’t try too hard. Clearly, she wanted to be seen, and I wanted her to know that I’d noticed.

“Vigil,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “We meet again.”

She swished the water around her hips, trailing her fingertips along the surface, inviting me to move to one of the waterfall pools. I wasn’t about to turn down an offer like that, so I scooted over until I was beside her and the falling water pounded my shoulders and cascaded down my back. It was only when we moved to the mineral spa, bubbles rising and popping from the natural cleft in the rock below, that she spoke again.

“I’m Annelli Dalgaard, by the way. And you, of course, are the Vigil. Or the Vigilant. Or is it the Vigil Bound? I never have gotten a straight answer about that one.”

“Vigil is fine,” I said with a smile. For an instant I wondered if my red eyes were off-putting, but she didn’t seem to mind.

“We are so grateful for your coming,” she said.

If Maggie had said that, she would’ve put the emphasis on “coming,” but Annelli was a different kind of flirt. Far more subtle in some ways, more overt in others. She let the bubbles around her breasts do most of the talking.

“The town has been so very troubled,” she continued after a brief pause, “and I hate to see it so. Ironmoor has a special place in my heart, you know. I grew up here, played in these streets once upon a time, though I left when I was very young. Traveling with the merchant train as a musician is a dream, but it seems there’s not much joy these days, even for me. I hope you manage to put an end to these dreadful killings—it’s getting to be that I hardly feel safe enough to bathe.” She glanced up, a wicked smile on her lips. “Though, maybe with you around I might reconsider.”

“I’ll sure do my best. And, for what it’s worth, I enjoyed your playing. Your song had…” Shit. What was I going to say? That it was weird and haunting? That didn’t sound right. “Well, it was good,” I finished weakly.

“High praise from one such as yourself. Surely you must be a man of culture, what with all the places you must’ve seen. That’s one of the things I love best about being with the merchants—the freedom. The travel. Though my travels are far less exotic than yours, I’m sure.” She traced a finger through the waters again, drawing my eye. “Just Lyshaven to Halgem to Belmonk, then around the mountain and through the hamlets, and back to Ironmoor. Still, it suits me well enough. I find I like to come and go and go and come and come and go again.”

“You and me both,” I said, meeting her eyes and refusing to look away.

“I find a little absence keeps my fans begging for more,” she said. “And as an artist, I can hardly ask for anything other than that.” She smiled, leaned forward as if to kiss me, and stood. “Speaking of my fans,” she purred, “I’ll be performing in the Three Chimneys tonight, but if you would like to continue our chat when I’m done, you could always visit me in my wagon.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. Women that beautiful never did.

I watched her walk the length of the baths just like every other man in the place.

When I was finally done, the attendants returned my clothes. They were still mildly damp but at least I didn’t have to worry about them being defiled by my pixie familiar. Washed, wearing clean duds, and with a rumbling stomach, I threaded my way back to the common room, ready to chow down and enjoy some of Maggie’s awful beer. Well, maybe not enjoy. More like tolerate.

Somehow, Annelli had beaten me back. She was already strumming away, driving the other men mad with her low-cut top and the wink in her eye.

Maggie was busy rushing around the room, dispensing drinks and bowls, but she made sure I had a plate of the finest meat and softest bread. A huge part of me wanted to take Annelli up on her invitation for a little late-night rendezvous, but by the time I got done with the meal I could barely keep my eyes open. It seemed Annelli was just getting into the swing of things, and based on the fat tips she was accumulating in a hollowed-out gourd, I had no doubt she would keep right on playing for a while.

Taking a Vigil to bed might have been on her agenda, but money was money.

There would always be another night. With a sigh, I slipped from the stool and stumbled toward my bedroom, tucked away toward the back of the inn. Annelli offered me a reproachful look as I passed and a little pout, but like I thought, she kept right on singing. Which was fine by me, because I was asleep before my head hit what passed for a pillow, chased down into a dreamless sleep by her honeyed voice.