The point being, he now had several mirrors he could bounce between at will: the standing mirror at Heru’s mansion on Bainbridge, the silver compact in my pocket, and the pendant dangling from a chain around my neck. The trifecta created a network of sorts, which was pretty damn convenient; he could play the messenger between the rest of Clan Heru on Bainbridge and me, the off-the-radar fugitive on a mission. A rebel with a cause.

“I’m surprised any Nejerets can stand living here,” I said as quietly as I could, skirting eye contact with a greasy-haired woman peddling backpacks and other kinds of bags boasting custom modifications.

My kind, immortal beings—immortal-ish—originally heralding from the Sahara Desert before ancient Egypt had become a thing, is gifted with more than just the amazing regenerative abilities that make our lives potentially endless. Our senses—sight, smell, and hearing, mostly—are heightened beyond those of humans, something that can be both a benefit and a curse. Right now, surrounded by thousands of bodies in various stages of unwashedness, my hypersensitive nose was definitely a curse.

“Breathe through your mouth,” Dom suggested.

I could only imagine the look of horror that warped my features. “And eat this stench?” I snorted derisively. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Perhaps you should be on your way, then,” Dom said. “Make this visit as quick as possible. There are many other Nejerets on Heru’s list . . .”

I nodded, though he couldn’t see the movement, and scanned the area around me. The Tent District occupied what used to be the King County International Airport—Boeing Field, to the locals—back before gravloops, a high-speed transportation system utilizing air pressure and gravity, stole the market in long-distance travel. The now-defunct airport was surrounded by a chain-link fence on three sides and the narrow Duwamish Waterway on the east side, creating a long, autonomous pseudo-nation. The Tent District occupied a three-square-mile space in southern Seattle, just south of the once industrial-hip, now run-down and abandoned Georgetown neighborhood.

Within the chain-link walls, this kingdom of paupers was broken into four quadrants by two permanent pedestrian thoroughfares that crossed in the relative middle, one connecting the north and south gates, the other leading from the eastern gate to the “docks” spanning the entire western edge of the district. These avenues were for foot and bicycle traffic only, as automobiles weren’t allowed within the district’s fences. Guns, either. The lack of cars made it so walking through the gates was like taking a step back in time.

The acre or two nearest the northern gate functioned as something of a street fair, where it seemed that the residents of the Tent District could barter for food and goods. A myriad of jerry-rigged and dilapidated tents covered the peddler’s stalls, brightly colored paper lanterns dangled from crisscrossing strings overhead, jazzing up the place, and people crowded three or four deep at each stall, speaking loudly and gesticulating with gusto. According to the satellite maps I’d viewed online, there was a larger marketplace at the center of the district, where a cluster of old airplane hangars looked to have been converted into something of a town square. At least, that’s what it had looked like on the computer screen at the public library this morning. I’d never actually stepped foot within these fences before. And no, not just because of the smell.