For the second time that morning, Lore wrenched open the door, the squealing hinges echoing through the row house. “Val.”

Green eyes glinted beneath a faded scarf, white-blond hair a corona around pale cheeks sunburned to ruddy. Val always wore the same scarf and the same braid, and she never wasted time with pleasantries. “You and Michal need to be headed for the Ward in fifteen minutes.”

“Good morning to you, too.”

“I’m not playing, mouse.” Val gave a scrutinizing look to Lore’s dressing gown, her mussed hair. “This could be a hard job. You need to be ready.”

“I always am.” In the ten years since Lore had been running poisons for Val, she’d never had the woman herself show up like this, right before a drop. A confused line carved between her brows. “Is something the matter, Val?”

The older woman shifted on her feet, her eyes flicking away for half a heartbeat before landing on Lore’s again, steadied and sure. “It’s fine,” she said. “This is just a new client. I want to make sure everything goes off without a hitch.”

“It will.” Lore nodded, channeling confidence she didn’t quite feel. “Don’t worry.”

Val stood there a moment longer, mouth twisted. Then, whip-quick, she leaned forward and pressed her dry lips to Lore’s forehead. She was off the stoop and headed down the road before Lore’s teeth clicked shut, chasing the shock off her face. The old poison runner might be the closest thing Lore had to a mother, but she still wasn’t one for affection.

Lore’s brows stayed furrowed as she went back to the kitchen and collected her coffee again—though the look on Elle’s face said chances were high she’d spit in it—then drifted toward the stairs.

Could just be nerves. It’d been a while since Val picked up a new client. Most of the deathdealers they ran poison for were well established, dug into the underbelly of the city like rot in a tooth. Mari, Val’s partner, was historically picky about who the team took on. The two of them had raised Lore on tough love and hard choices, and be careful about who you let in was high on their list of lessons.

Maybe the collective coffers were low, though Lore couldn’t imagine why. It seemed to her like more and more people were gobbling down poison every day, stuffing their mouths with petals to chase power or death or a few hours of kaleidoscopic high.

Whatever. She’d never had a head for the business side of things. Just the running. Lore was good at running.