My visit to the Tent District fit into facet numero uno of my mission: to rally support for Heru. Thousands of people lived here in the Tent District, hundreds of which were Nejerets thanks to Heru’s standing offer of a conditional carte blanche. In a species that counted its population at just over eleven thousand, several hundred swinging this way or that could make a noticeable difference.

The district’s leader, a Nejeret by the name of Dorman, was an old friend of Heru’s. Or, at least, an old former friend of Heru’s. According to Dom, the two had a falling out around the last turn of the century, nearly a hundred and forty years ago, which, I supposed, was why I was approaching Dorman instead of Heru doing it himself.

I pulled up my sweatshirt’s hood and stuffed my hands into the pockets of my leather coat, then started down the walkway. I headed south toward the center of the district, where my sources told me Dorman had set up office. It was a little over a mile from the northern gate.

“Should’ve taken the eastern gate,” I commented, moving my lips as little as possible so as not to draw attention to myself. At least this was a place where being a wacky chick who talks to herself might not draw too much insta-judgment.

“But this way you have plenty of time to make yourself seen,” Dom said. We’d gone back and forth between using the northern and eastern gates—the eastern gate being a good bit closer to the district’s core. “I think you are discounting how beneficial it could prove to our cause for word of your arrival to spread among the Nejerets here. You may even draw a crowd . . .”

I agreed with him, but being the only one of us with a physical body to worry about, I was a little concerned about being jumped by covert Senate supporters or hired lackeys. It didn’t seem likely that they’d been lurking around in here, and if they were, they’d be unarmed, thanks to the pretty hefty anti-weapons security check at the gate, but there was no way to know for sure. Unless they jumped me. Then I’d be pretty sure.

I peered first to one side, then the other as I made my way farther into the district, weaving around and between people. Most wore several layers despite the current lack of rain. The chill in the air justified it, and the overcast sky teased us all about raining down its droplets of love at any moment. It was February and this was Seattle, after all.

My fingers itched for my absent sword, Mercy, but I was trying to lay low. At least, when I wasn’t trying to draw a crowd. And laying low with a katana strapped to your back is harder than it sounds. Or maybe it’s exactly as hard as it sounds. In any case, I missed Mercy. Desperately.

At present, my possessions were minimal. I’d been living out of a backpack for the past four days—a good old vintage forest-green JanSport—ducking out in bars until they closed and kicked me out, then breaking into basements to crash for the night. This is my city, and I know how to live on the lam here. Once my mission takes me out to other cities—to other territories—it’ll be a whole new ball game.