Nyx’s muscles relaxed, and she instinctively shook off Rhea’s touch. She didn’t know how the other woman did it, but she could calm anyone down. That sort of thing might have made her a damn good courtesan in the Pleasure Garden, but Nyx didn’t like to be touched.

Curly Hair exhaled, frustrated. “If you’re going to keep that Mors pointed at my head, I’m going to lose my patience.” She lifted her blaster. “This may be old, but I’ll bet I can get a shot off before you pull your trigger.”

“Put that thing back in your holster,” Rhea said to the woman. “Nyx, put your Mors down.”

When Rhea was upset, she sounded disappointed. Like she’d expected better and you were the absolute worst for making her feel bad. Nyx had to hand it to her: it worked.

“Rhea’s right,” Ariadne said. “If they know how to contact the Novantae, we need them alive.”

“Kid, we don’t actually know if they can contact anyone,” Nyx said, her Mors still pointed at Curly Hair. “A pirate? A fucking lie.” She raked the strangers with a quick, assessing gaze. “I’ve seen scavengers. Neither of you look that desperate to me.”

Buzz Cut narrowed her gaze. “And how would you know?”

Nyx ticked off the fingers of her free hand. “You’re too clean, too well fed, too well spoken, you’ve still got all your teeth, and”—she craned to get a peek at the base of Buzz Cut’s skull—“I don’t see scars from some clumsy, back-alley attempt at brain surgery to get rid of the Oracle’s implant. Now I’m out of gun-free fingers.” She nodded to Curls. “That one is military. Takes one to know one.”

That woman had dead eyes. Devoid of expression. She had the look of a thousand kills to her. Back in the barracks, they would have called her Blessed. It was always clear when the God of Death chose His favorites; they carried the burden of every life they took.

Nyx would know. She had been Blessed too.

Ariadne hesitantly raised her weapon and pointed it at Buzz Cut. Rhea—damn her soft heart—carefully stepped between everyone with her hands out.

“And me?” Buzz Cut asked. “What do you reckon my background is?”

“Nobody important. You slouch too much.”

“Hey!”

Nyx lifted a shoulder. “You asked.”

Curly Hair studied Nyx, pausing at her muscled arms. Nyx’s tattoos were on full display, the black vines bristling with thorns. Every thorn represented a life taken for the Tholosian Empire. Yeah, definitely military—decorated, maybe. She assessed Nyx like she was choosing one of her officers: making sure her genetics matched up with what she saw.