The priceless look of frustration on Erik's face amused Rabecca after she answered his question about sleeping arrangements. That twisted bit of joy carried through until she woke in the morning. Her grin strained her cheeks.

Serves you right, Mr. Philanderer.

It was common knowledge that the temples funded inns for their worshippers. Ironically, the Disciples of Venus paid for women-only hostels, and armed guards prohibited men. Prostitution, a practice of the disciples, was also forbidden. Any woman, no questions asked, from any religion, could request a free night's stay, or apply for an extension, if they promised to attend ceremonies. Most times, ladies from the Firewood District visited, their faces sunk from exhaustion, other times shaky wives crept in for safe-haven. Female adventurers favored their patronage, too--cheap, clean, and comfortable.

Without a doubt, if Rabecca stayed at Erik's place last night, then he'd have his way with her. They'd be screwing until noon. He never passed up an opportunity to gawk or joke, and he did so without discretion. The flirting was fun enough, but last night he implied precarious line crossing.

Rabecca discovered Erik's scheme when she evaluated his snare-and-bait, and she chewed her bottom lip.

Sneaky little shit. Enjoy your blue balls.

Entering Walter's, no, Lord Walter's, bondservice required, at a minimum, Lady Elin's trust. Rabecca's previous propositions at Walter definitely disqualified her. However, if Erik vouched for her, if she appeared as his intimate companion, then he could sign her into the charter through himself. Once there, both could ingratiate themselves into Lord Walter's and Lady Elin's favor.

This plan ridiculously favored Erik, despite zero chance at Lady Elin's seduction. When, or if, he attempted it, it was the expected obligatory long-shot. In the meantime, he enjoyed Rabecca's body because they wanted to maintain appearances. With his alchemical training, the bondservant's stipend exceeded his current adventuring income. Erik needed Rabecca, either way, to abate Lord Walter's suspicions, well-intentioned or otherwise.

She endured risks. Under Erik's roof, she obliged to satisfy him, fair enough, but it could decline into severe tediousness. Without specialization beyond limited spellcasting, she lacked a stipend. Monopoly laws prevented Lord Walter from signing adventurers. If she wished to leave, then the bond-breaking devastated her, socially and financially, for years. Her living standards depended on Erik's goodwill. If he decided to make her live a frugal life, then she'd have to tolerate it until the contract expired. Rabecca achieved success through one sole gamble: an invitation into Lord Walter's and Lady Elin's bedroom.

It came down to one question: is the small chance worth the overwhelming risk? If someone interrogated her, then she claimed no. The screams in her head?

Yes, she thought, absolutely, yes.

The rewards surpassed the risks. Rabecca craved pampering that dissolved her senses. She rolled over face-down on her bed, sliding her inner thighs together.

I should stop now before it's too late. Well, a little more, it should be fine. Maybe? I've been a good girl, so I can indulge. Don't I deserve that much? I can do it.

She imagined she drowned in fine wine, suffocated on gourmet food, and strangled in the finest clothes. She remembered the itchy hay--she shook her head violently.

The detergent on the pillow must be irritating me.

When the fantasized pampering lost steam, she buried under an endless avalanche of gold coins, a glittering grave. Next, spider-silk sheets, the thickest and softest, torn into strips to--Rabecca smooshed her face into her pillow and cursed.

Shit, it's still wrong. It's not enough. I can never do enough. Fine. Whatever. I hope you're proud of yourself, it's your own fault.

Rabecca splayed her legs, left then right, in that specific order, in a pantomime of unwillingness. The cot resembled a wide shallow casket with short legs, and a wood frame enclosed the mattress. The edges hurt and helped when the corners pinched her ankles, and, to her self-loathing satisfaction, the bed outweighed the reluctant twisting, pried open and indefensible. Her writing-hand wiggled through the headboard. If someone walked in, then, failing to see a lack of restraints, they might think her confined. It otherwise remained evident she desired to act it out.

She remembered the boy's pudginess, and his awkward body made him the target of ridicule, like her own over-developed one. It was a fatal mistake to offer sympathetic words. When he cornered her in that barn, on his last day alive, the snarled vulgarities killed his meek visage. She screamed. He pushed her face into the untended hay--she crushed her face into the pillow--neglected to mold. She choked--she flexed to close her legs, and the bed held them open--cloth strips dug into her ankles. Then, at the apex of her scorned terror, everything froze to death.

Like baby animals that imprinted on their mothers at birth, she understood this moment stained her heart. If she could, then she would kill him again. Guilt slowed her fingers. She took his life, and he died a boy. He never entered her, so the unbidden fantasy stalled.

No, I'm not stopping! I have to keep reliving this hell, so I'm getting something out of it. Walter, Elin, those two will do the trick, I'm sure of it. Her body, his mana-shadow...

She yearned to arouse them, simple with her disgustingly sexual appearance. All she negotiated for were indulgences, her physique worth that much, and she begged they ground her down to eradicate these memories. Erik might betray her, too, ideally, and somehow, all three might enslave her. The perfect demonstration of her desirability. Lord Walter and Lady Elin were a hero and an ascended. Nobody could stop them, no one would save her.

Unlikely, none of them will, but, perhaps if tempted hard enough? She imagined the obscene demands, and split her legs apart until the tendons throbbed--I'm already close! So fast! Wait--

--a single knock rattled her boarded window.

Is someone peeking!?

She yanked her head up. Mortification froze her blood. The window, as she secured it last night, remained covered, with no gaps. An inn run by women considered such things. Nobody witnessed her ass rocking in the air like a cat in heat.

Damn it, why did it have to be ruined--

--another rattle--

--someone is going to die.

Rabecca tied the bedsheet around her chest, scrambled over to the window, and fumbled a slat clear. A pebble missed her. Once she looked through and blinked against the rush of sunlight, she observed Erik waved from the opposite side of the street.

Only he would be bold enough, could be stupid enough, to harass a woman at an inn of Venus--I mean--Aphrodite.

"What the hell do you want, Erik?" she screamed.

"Did you forget? You're late for the party meeting."

Rabecca yanked up her bustier, again, as she stomped to the Adventurer's Guild, and she buckled the strap centered over her cleavage. With each step, she whispered a horrible insult.

Erik leaned by the entrance, "Well, look who graced us with her presence. Tell me, do you always sleep naked?"

"One more word, Erik, and it'll be your last. Try me."

He raised his hands in surrender, then bowed and ushered her inside. She walked passed him without breaking stride.

The daytime Adventurer's Guild lacked the intuitive dignity of its nighttime version.

After dark, members avoided each other, like porcupines, because they respected each other's menacing desperation. Groups remained small, well-knit, and whispered to discuss plans. Better, the men didn't undress her with their eyes, if they looked, because their sole intention concentrated on monster extermination. Losing focus invited disaster.

During the day, more members pack into the guildhall, everyone bumped into and touched each other, a handshake, a pat on the back. Teeth flashed, placating and false, like surrendered goblins. She snubbed the swiveling heads and ignored them. None of them, no matter how much they prayed, had a chance, anyway.

"You're late."

What was this guy's name again? Henry?

"My apologies," Rabecca said as Erik pulled out a chair for her, "I got caught up in something."

Henry, sitting, almost met Rabecca eye-to-eye, though his sight never drifted above her chest. If asked, she doubted he could guess her eye color. His stomach's girth exceeded everyone else's, but a bulk of smooth muscle flexed underneath his fat. His temperamental mannerisms, she figured, arose from his natural-born strength, like a bull's. Slathered oils shaded the tell-tale rust of his chainmail, not scrubbed since he first wore it, if he removed it at all, and his unkempt beard lacked a comb. Clearly, he cared less for his ale-fermented breath.

His companion, a supplier, hunched under his pack, and Rabecca doubted he stood up straight in his life. The spectacles and clawing grip on coins reminded her of an owl. She never learned his name, because he never spoke, and decided it unimportant.

Neither, she judged, could succeed at night.

Time marched on, and her chances at seducing Lord Walter diminished, so she requested additional party members. She needed quick money. If Erik suggested they request a bondservant interview today, then she'd agree, without faltering. Everything would be on the line, no wiggle-room. If she stashed away rainy-day coins, then she maintained a little autonomy dwelling with Erik. Money mitigated a potentially hopeless situation. It always did.

Hence, the temporary association with Henry and his owl-faced supplier. One big score, and then she could ditch Henry, the guild, and join Lord Walter in bondservice.

"For a dungeon delve like this, I'm inviting more friends. That a problem?" Henry asked.

The more, the merrier.

Rabecca crossed her arms, "If they're ready to hunt today, sure."

"Odin? You're lying. How? I don't see it." Rabecca stared at Erik.

A bemused tone flavored Erik's response, "Why?"

"I mean, look at you," she said, "You don't look the type. You're a rogue."

"What religion do you think most scouts and rogues follow?"

"I never thought about it before. Your type is so secretive."

He maintained his ever-present smile, "The followers of Odin walk two paths. The best known is the Path of Thor, and you know them as the Odinic Templars or warriors. Then there's my path, the Path of Loki. We're the brains to their brawn, scouts, specialized talents, and temple administrators."

"I can't see you as a parchment scratcher."

"You'd be surprised at what I can do."

"And do you love combat as much as the Odinic Templars?"

Erik's friendly smile appeared a touch wolfish when he tilted his head, "No man could sneak into the middle of the enemy and not get a thrill."

I misjudged this man.

Henry stopped at the dungeon entrance, "We're here. After you, I'll keep close to you, woman."

For a brief moment, Rabecca thought she smelled rotting hay.