Page 28 of Nemesis Mine
“Right,” said Cyrus slowly. Whatever funny thought had occurred, Maximillian seemed to be over it. Maybe Balthazar was just extremely ugly.
A few seconds passed, as though the dust was settling over their agreement. Then Maximillian extended his hand and locked eyes with Cyrus again, challenging and just a tiny bit pleased. Pleased to be working with a wrongdoer, despite the way it went against everything he stood for. Despite the risk of the Federation’s wrath landing on his headif this went wrong, or if Cyrus decided to spill. Ridiculous. Perhaps he’d gone mad after all that do-gooding.
“Next week,” Maximillian stated. The little grin twitching at the corner of his mouth brought out that stupid dimple. Cyrus was going to have to learn to tolerate the sight of it. “Here’s to being fake nemeses.”
Cyrus took the hand. He allowed the calloused fingers of the man he’d tried very hard to kill—his new partner in crime—to wind around his own. Maximillian’s touch was surprisingly warm, and the intimacy of it coaxed a shudder down Cyrus’s spine. A life of dedicated villainy did not marry itself to handshakes and teamwork, especially not with a shining hero of the realm. But he could swallow his disgust and play along—for now.
“Fake nemeses.”
Chapter Eight
A week later, on the day of the awards ceremony, Cyrus found himself sitting in The Ticklish Nymph in sunny Cepha, surrounded by tavern chatter with his hood pulled up to hide his features. He was not alone.
Opposite him sat Maximillian’s personal assistant. He was a handful of years older than Cyrus, dressed neatly in a buttoned maroon waistcoat and over-polished shoes. His auburn hair, thinning at the crown and losing its vibrancy, was swept off his face to reveal a forehead that looked perpetually sweaty. Cyrus found his large eyes unsettling. They were the kind that always looked like they were trying to stare into a person’s soul.
He was also, incidentally, the same man who had walloped Cyrus over the back of the head with a sizeable piece of wood in Arclee. Cyrus had not taken kindly to this realisation. In fact, he had made a beeline for him the moment recognition struck and snatched a nearby table’s tankard with full intent of bringing it down upon Balthazar’s sweatylittle head until the man grabbed his wrist and hissed, “Don’t make a scene, you fool!”
Attempting to brain himandcalling him a fool. Two insults Cyrus would never have let lie if not for the fact that he wanted to see if there was value in this fake nemeses scheme. He shook his wrist free, treated Balthazar to his very best lip curl, and sank slowly onto the wooden bench opposite. Balthazar sniffed and pursed up his lips like he’d smelled something bad. Cyrus always smelled delectable, so he could only be sniffing himself.
Minutes passed. Neither spoke. Balthazar was supposed to be providing Cyrus with more information about the awards ceremony to ensure full preparation, but instead he was busy eyeing Cyrus with great dislike. Ironic, really. Cyrus was the one who had been viciously attacked. He was the one displaying immense maturity by not removing Balthazar’s head from his shoulders and using it to start a game of catch.
Cyrus waited. Balthazar waited too.
Cyrus fought the urge to fidget. In any other situation, he would have waited for as long as it took—until the drunks rolled home and the barkeep bawled at them to leave. But the ceremony was looming. He could not deny that he felt jittery.
He coughed, to see if that would spur Balthazar into motion. It didn’t. Stubborn little shit. The responsibility would have to fall to Cyrus.
“So,” he said. It was, he thought, a fair attempt at initiating conversation.
Balthazar neglected to answer, though he did huff outan annoyed little sigh, as though Cyrus had interrupted a deep thought.
“So,” Cyrus repeated, with an edge of threat.
Balthazar frowned. He didn’t appear frightened, as he should. He looked vexed, more than anything, as though Maximillian had greatly imposed upon him by ordering his presence here.
“So,” he replied, deliberately bland.
Cyrus scratched his chin as he considered what else he could say. It was tempting to abandon all hope of conversation, maybe just sit and stare in malevolent silence until Balthazar became uncomfortable and left, or else gave in to the provocation to argue.
But if this worked out, Cyrus would get glory and goodies, two things he was rather fond of. Playing nice with Balthazar would have to be the price he paid.
“So Maximillian says you don’t have a life of your own, but you can be trusted to keep a secret,” Cyrus offered, and tried for a winning smile.
Balthazar stared at him. There was an edge of incredulity to his expression.
Cyrus’s smile dimmed slightly. His instinct, in the face of an attempted social nicety gone wrong, was to reach out and bash Balthazar’s face into the sticky ale-spotted tabletop between them. That way either he wouldn’t remember the botched nicety or he’d be too afraid to ever bring it up again.
But that probably wouldn’t go hand in hand with the whole putting-in-effort thing. Cyrus took a steadying breath and hitched his smile back up. Balthazar continued to stare at him like he had sprouted a second head.
Perhaps he was just a little slow on the uptake. “That’s a good thing,” Cyrus added.
Finally Balthazar spoke, in a clipped little voice that immediately put Cyrus’s hackles up and made him imagine again the satisfyingly hollowclonkof Balthazar’s skull against the table. “I don’t need your explanations, wrongdoer.” His eyes narrowed. “Though I’m interested to learn that the two of you were gossiping about me.”
Cyrus shrugged, unconcerned. “We had a lot of things to discuss. But you were one of them, yes.”
Balthazar’s mouth tightened. “So Maximillian said,” came the terse response.
Of course he disapproved. Balthazar was probably the type to have nightmares for weeks if he accidentally broke a rule. Cyrus was more interested in the way he said Maximillian’s name—like it was a cherished word, but one he was reluctant to spit out in Cyrus’s presence. Presumably he believed that Cyrus was unworthy of his glorious master. It made him want to prod harder, press a finger to the obvious bruise nursed by this uptight little man.
