She could feel Rocket’s presence on her shoulder, as if the imaginary quetzal was nodding in agreement.

The few streetlights that were still working cast a yellow glow, the misty rain slanting through cones of illumination. This was what qualified as the business district: the assay office, the gunsmith’s, the glass works, the boot shop, and foundry being the most prominent. Just past them, she could see the circle of light at Inga’s door. Even across the distance she could recognize Hofer and Cian Gatlin as they stomped the water off their boots; their slickers and rain hats were shining in the light. But for the fact that Hofer was the best construction boss on the planet, he would have been a complete waste of skin. Gatlin, a nice guy, was the local pipefitter.

She watched them enter, wondered for a moment if this was another night that Hofer would start trouble that she’d have to finish. For the last couple of months, he’d had been unusually mild-mannered. That was the thing about Hofer. He’d gone through phases like that in the past, and just about the time that everyone started to consider him to be a normal human being, he’d blow a gasket, and someone—usually Talina—would have to knock him half silly to make him behave again.

Never a dull moment.

Down in her belly, Demon shifted, hissing as if in anticipation. He’d been affecting her digestion ever since she’d found evidence of Whitey out at Liz’s claim. Like he knew Whitey was about to try something. But what?

“Want to spill it, you piece of shit? Tell me what he’s up to?”

But silence was her only answer.

She stamped her way up to the door, tilted her hat so the water drained off the brim, and shook her quetzal-hide cape to shed the moisture. Stepping into the foyer, she found the floor muddy and wet, the raucous sounds of conversation, too-loud laughter, and the musical clink of plates and glassware rising from below.

She took her usual moment at the top of the stairs, cataloging faces and attitudes. Hofer and Gatlin had already made it to the bar, gesturing for Inga’s attention. All of the usual suspects were present—most sitting in their accustomed places at the long chabacho-wood tables.

When Talina turned her attention to the far right of the bar, she arched an eyebrow. Her chair, of course, remained empty, but Shig Mosadek was bent in earnest conversation with Kalico Aguila. And, to Talina’s surprise, huddled with them was Allison Chomko, unmistakable with her platinum blond locks piled high and the form-fitting dress that emphasized every curve. Even from above, Talina could see that the entire clientele was wondering what that meeting might be about.