“The Blooded Queen”

By Robert Docherty

Street lights take on a particular oblong shape in the rain. Their distended reflections spill across the roads and sidewalks like a painter has upended her supplies. Cars spray a rooster-tail of water behind their back wheels as they traverse the soggy roads. The few unlucky enough to be caught out in the wet speed walk beneath umbrellas while others admit defeat, waiting under awnings for their ride to appear and save them from the conditions.

        But others aren’t so deterred. The moody evening makes for an excuse to stay indoors, and clubs and bars across the city see hundreds of hopefuls gathered in lines, only the few up front fortunate enough to be under what little cover is afforded them. One such club, The Blooded Queen, hosts a uniquely extravagant atmosphere. The average cost of every outfit waiting in line would make the eyes of most renters in the area water. Even the socks must be brand name, or at least the pedicures done by those that others in line will recognize the name of.

        Not everyone waits in line though. Two doors exist on the club’s outside, one smaller than the other. The smaller is manned by a former linebacker with an earpiece and a concealed handgun standing watch over it, a clipboard clutched in his meaty fist. Rolls of muscle spill out of his suit and he towers over all the playboys standing in line with underfed women on their arms.

        It’s the second door that’s different. Nobody waits outside of it, but it sits, imposing and heavy, locked until someone knocks on its face. Through a peephole one of the staff surveys the person wanting access and lets them in presuming they’re recognized — and they are. This door has no line, but it does have a valet.

        A Mercedes-Benz, though only a C-class, pulls up to the curb. From the driver’s side a portly man steps out and he quickly rounds the front of the vehicle to open the door for his wife. Once out of the car, the pair of them step up to the door and the man knocks on its face with a sharp confidence.

        He’s middle aged, clean shaven, but heavy set. An easy smile rests on his thick features, lips nestled in the rolls of fat so as to make him appear thinner-lipped than he really is. His eyes are similarly set back in the flesh of his head, also appearing small and somehow disproportionate. His bulk hides a posture that’s only getting worse as he gets older and while this suit fits him well, it soon will have to go the way of his previous one to be re-tailored or replaced.

        On his arm is a woman that only serves to exaggerate his size. While tall, she has the thin, taught look of a woman over a certain age. Her skin stretches across her hands and face, suggesting surgery or at least an aversion to food. But at the same time, she’s lent an elegance by her expertise in making herself up, her hair piled atop her head in a loose yet refined style and simple jewelry adorning her neck and earlobes. The quiet grace that wives to elder statesmen seem to have a monopoly on. As much as their sizes differentiate them, their expressions too are divergent from one another. His easy, carefree and self-satisfied smile contrasts to her own more dour look of restrained annoyance. Whether this is the face she always wears or simply a product of their being here, it’s hard to tell. Though the longer one stares at her, the more it seems to be the former.

        After the man’s knock, he bounces on the balls of his feet and clears his throat, the pervasive background noise of the rain apparently not serving to fill the silence between them. He looks to his wife and gives her a wink. A reassurance that does nothing for her.

        “An hour, maybe two,” he says, realizing her distinct lack of enthusiasm of any sort. “Ambrose is making this happen for me after I helped him the other week, so I want to take him up on the offer. Clink glasses with the big guys.” His smile falters as she’s unconvinced.

        “Excuse me for not liking any of them.”

        He rolls his eyes. “I know, so it’s a good thing you don’t have to do any of the talking.”

        She sets her jaw, spooling up return fire only to release it like decocking a still-loaded handgun. As much as that was casually and unknowingly insulting, it can’t be denied that her lack of wanting to be here will save her from some amount of idle chit-chat.

        The door finally opens and interrupts both of their thought processes. Like a curtain sliding to one side, it’s showtime.

        Playing his role, the man ushers his wife in first, who dips her head in polite thanks. A pimple-faced valet rushes out and places a ticket in the man’s hand in exchange for the Mercedes’ keys. The man thanks him and, as he gestures for his wife to take the lead, his gaze swings across to the head of the line at the opposite door. The bouncer stands like he’s sponsored by Frigidaire, but the man’s look ignores him completely. Instead, it fixates on the woman at the head of the line.

        She’s half his age, maybe a touch older, but a grace and maturity ooze from her features and posture. A tight black dress hugs her curves and a slit up her left thigh lends the otherwise modest outfit a hint of scandal. Simple black heels and black hair with a streak of red complete the look. He wants to stare longer, but he makes the deduction that, at the head of the line, she’ll be inside soon. Another smile twists his seemingly disproportionate features, but this one is devoid of warmth or even the ignorant self-satisfaction of his prior expression. And with that he swoops inside after his wife, thoughts of that exposed thigh playing in his head.

        Yellow lamps are set tastefully into the corners of the club. Just enough to see, but not so bright as to avoid casting shadows and removing the mystery. Every table and booth seems ensconced in its own pool of light, tightly concentrated on the central surface so faces can go unexamined except by others at the same table. The exception to this is the bar, a well lit and opulent section of the club with bottles of liquor stacked to the ceiling and glasses hanging at the ready. The bartenders are nearly as well dressed as the patrons, and their movements with each tumbler and shaker balletic; the thought-free deftness that only comes about with hours and years of simple repetition. And speaking of repetition of a different kind, a stage occupies another corner. Suited band members send cool jazz notes out amongst the patrons, the background mood to the night sufficiently set by their song.

        The maître d' appears seemingly from nowhere, his diminutive frame almost a fixture of the cabaret in and of itself. “Sir, madam, may I relieve you of your coats?”

        The pair thank him and the large man continues by saying, “And we’re here to meet friends. A Mr. Ambrose should be waiting for us.”

        “Ah! Indeed, he had informed me there would be more guests joining him. He’s a longtime friend of The Blooded Queen. Follow me, I’ll direct you to his table personally.” The maître d' sweeps away into the dark of the club and passes off the pair’s coats to one of his juniors, being sure to add a word about the importance of these particular garments. With that, he leads them toward the back of the building where the shadows are longer and the leather more supple.

        “Mr. Ambrose’s table,” the maître d' says, stopping and gesturing with such suddenness that the man nearly runs into him and has to make an effort to stop himself. The man nods and turns, seeing three suited gentleman around the crescent-shaped booth.

        In their center is a man exuding confidence that outstrips the others by multiple factors. “Marcus!” he exclaims as the maître d' walks away to service other patrons.

        “Arnold, it’s good to be seeing you again!”

        “Likewise, likewise. Sit, but first, tell me who the lovely lady is.”

        “This is Julia, my wife,” Marcus says, as she dips in a mock curtsy.

        “I’ll leave you boys to your business and find myself a seat at the bar,” she says.

        One of the other two men yet to be introduced gestures with his tumbler and says, “I think the other wives have got a table around here somewhere.” The others nod, and that’s that. Julia is dismissed. In the low light they can’t see her set her jaw, but the force threatens to send her to an oral surgeon.

        Marcus works his bulk behind the table and sits, trying to affect an air of confidence and worldliness; as if he belongs here more than he belongs in his own skin. The talk has been cheap up to now, but with Marcus’ arrival, the topic turns more serious, toward the “business” Julia so quickly acknowledged.

        The laughter dies from a joke well told, and Arnold speaks up. “So, Marcus, I’m glad you could join us.”

        “As am I.”

        “We’ve been discussing a new distribution center—for cash, not product, which I assume you’ve caught wind of.”

        “I think even the little folks like me have,” Marcus confirms with a grin. “But yes, the last time someone came by our main location he said something about a new spot being in the works. But he mostly said it was like he was annoyed at having another place to run around to.”

        Chuckles all around. That man was just a courier, who cares how far he has to go? “Well your information is correct,” continues Arnold. “We’re primarily curious if you need another location, and need it on the east side of town. The other side of the river. You’re one of a few candidates, so it depends on the specific needs of each." He smiles, holding something back. "And, among a few other factors.”

        Marcus starts to formulate his reply, but through the gloom of the cabaret, a familiar face walks. A dress that hugs her hips and the streak of red in her hair would be enough, but her face alone sticks in his mind now. Marcus coughs into his fist, attempting to regain his composure. Even as he starts to speak, he glances repeatedly toward her as she strides with nonchalance to the bar. “Well I think another dry cleaner can work almost anywhere if I’m honest.”

        “But?” Arnold says, anticipating more.

        “But,” Marcus continues, tearing his gaze from the woman, “I’ll be just as frank that I don’t know that area well and wouldn’t be able to give any sort of specifics about business viability. And besides, the real trouble is the competition. Everyone needs a dry cleaner or a laundromat, so trying to build either means muscling in on someone. It’s just inevitable.” This is his business and he knows it well, having run it successfully for many years well before men in nice suits and nicer cars offered him the chance to keep doing it and collect an extra commission for doing practically nothing. The “practically” being due to the caveat that he says nothing about it.

        As his expertise and experience in the industry comes to the forefront, he can set the girl to one side. Not forget completely, but put her from his mind long enough. “Not to mention I’m not sure of how much cash would need to be fronted,” he finishes, making a conscious decision to dedicate himself to this topic.

        “That part doesn’t have to be your concern.” Arnold steeples his fingers and leans in closer, his brow and nose casting shadows across the rest of his face as he enters the circle of light from above their heads. “But if you had another location, the same agreement would be acceptable?”

        “Of course!” Marcus says, instantly self-conscious of his enthusiasm. He tempers it as he continues, saying, “I’ve seen nothing but success from it, so as long as things are still working for all of you, then I’d consider myself lucky to keep going.”

        “Good,” Arnold says, leaning back again. “That’s what we had hoped to hear. Expected to hear, frankly.” He’s about to say something else when a waiter arrives at their table, asking if any drinks need to be refilled or they’d like to place any new orders. Arnold orders a round of top-shelf vodka shots for the table, something bracing to start off the night with, and then scotch on the rocks all around for sipping. The brands he names would normally make Marcus wince and think of his pocketbook, but being on Arnold’s tab, he grows silently excited for such a treat. “I hate to start with business,” Arnold says as the waiter leave them, “but once we’re all a drink or three in, we’ll have no patience for such things.” He winks and the table laughs on cue.

        As he watches the waiter leave, Marcus finds his gaze settling on the woman again. She holds a tumbler in one hand, leaning against the bar and watching the band croon out their notes as if they’re totally isolated and recording in a studio. Thoughts of steadily decreasing purity start to take up space in Marcus’ mind, and his resolution to focus on the business matter at hand dwindles. Until he’s interrupted.

        “Marcus?” The name comes as a question, grabbing his attention.

        “Hm? Sorry, I was distracted.”

        “I asked if you foresaw any difficulties running a place over there. I don’t think I need to remind you that if you’re not making any money, we’re not making any money.” Arnold’s words almost carry the cadence of a joke, but the words themselves imply otherwise.

        “Of course,” Marcus says, swallowing. “I think that’s part of why we’ve been successful as a team. I just focus on making my business as good as it can be, and we both reap the reward. The more money I take in, the more you can run through me.” It’s an observation anyone can make, but Marcus tries to make some sort of an impression by putting it so plainly. The neutral expressions of the other three men make it hard to tell if he’s succeeded. He swallows again, suspecting he hasn’t.

        “Indeed. How quickly could you have a report put together about how much profit that area might take in?”

        The question blindsides Marcus, revealing the only flaw in his image as an entrepreneur. While he owns and operates (tokenly, as does any CEO) a handful of stores, none of them are erected by him. In fact, without a concerted campaign a few years ago to bring them all in line with one another, they would even still sport the original branding under which Marcus bought them from the former owners. And not two months after he re-branded them all to be identical, men representing those he now sits with came around with a business proposal. It’s funny the way the world works sometimes.

        “I would think a week,” Marcus answers, “but I’d ask for a little leniency since there’s lots of factors to…be considered.” His hesitation comes from not conjuring a lie in time to cover the fact that really he needs time because he needs to learn how, or figure out who to pay, to get such a thing. His air of confidence is crumbling and he can only hope it’s not obvious to the other three around him.

        Fortunately he’s saved by the waiter returning with their drinks. Marcus sees the man approaching, but behind him, he spies the woman again. She lifts the drink to her lips, draining what little is left. She sees him looking in her direction and meets his gaze as she finishes the drink. Once she pulls the glass from her lips, he can see the hint of a smile playing at her mouth while she keeps up their eye contact. Marcus’ heart nearly stops and a smile of his own blossoms. She taps the bar to signal for another drink, but the waiter reaches their table and blocks Marcus’ view just as she does so.

        The waiter sets the drinks down and leaves with a polite nod. Arnold directs them all to lift their glasses and with a short toast to good health and better fortunes, they all down them. “Damn,” the man to Arnold’s right says. “That’s some good shit.”

        “Damn right,” says the man on his left. “Very good.”

        “The scotch will be even better, just you wait,” Arnold assures them. “But I like to start with a shot, reminds me of my school days.” As the mood shifts steadily away from the cold and calculated affairs of percentages and profit margins, conversation drifts toward lighter topics. As their scotches arrive, Arnold asks, “What about you Marcus? What’s your Alma Mater?”

        This, he can derive some pride from. “Well it could’ve been better on the whole but I actually did a couple years at Harvard’s business school.”

        “Really?” comes the chorus from around the table.

        Arnold asks the obvious question of, “Why only two years?”

        “You wouldn’t know it from looking at me,” Marcus says, patting his stomach and laughing, “but I actually had a football scholarship. Meant a lot to my parents since we didn’t come from much, but I was deep into my sophomore year and I blew a knee in a playoff game.” A frankness takes over his facial features, a visual representation of a “come what may” attitude.

        “Even just two years seems to have done you some good. Hell, you were doing pretty good before we showed up, and you’re doing even better now!”

        More laughter from around the table. This time it’s less spirited from Marcus though. His gaze continually flits to the woman at the bar as the conversation progresses, and his thoughts deviate from whatever passes for idle chit chat amongst these three and toward matters more salacious.

        With increasing oftenness he looks toward the woman and their eyes meet for a third time. Marcus steels himself and maintains the look, making a wordless statement of intent. He smiles and dips his head at her, as if to confirm to her that his extended look is intentional.

        The woman’s brow arches and she looks away for a moment as if doing arithmetic in her head. Equation solved, she picks up her handbag, stands, and walks to a far corner of the club. Marcus glances in the direction she’s walking and sees an alcove, no doubt housing the bathrooms. Making a split-second decision, Marcus says, “Gotta use the head,” interrupting a story that one of Arnold’s juniors is telling about Brazilian women, Colombian blow, and a boat owned by an Italian real estate magnate. They excuse him and he stands to follow the woman, wholly ignorant of the looks he’s getting for having been so obviously uncaring about the story being told.

        Marcus winds his way between tables, doing his best not to interrupt anyone’s meal but prioritizing a desire not to keep the woman waiting.

        He nears the bathroom doors and one is still swinging while the other is at rest. He pushes the former open and enters the men’s room, starting to realize that whatever plan he may have been formulating is now entirely gone from his mind. In fact, the only thing on his mind is the growing strain put on his pants by the erection he’s developing. The door closes behind him and he looks around the room with the hunger of a predator in striking distance of its prey.

        Only he doesn’t realize he’s playing the wrong role.

        With no warning, the back of his right knee explodes in pain and he falls forward. The pain is so sudden and so extreme a flash of white pops behind his eyes and his mind goes equally blank. Now on the ground, a pressure that feels like a knee makes itself known on his lower back, right at the base of his spine. It’s a sharp pain that he tries to twist away from with predictable results.

        “What the-“ he starts to say through clenched teeth, but he’s interrupted. A new pain emanates from his neck, further pressure being applied there. The pressure of a pointed, high heeled shoe, he guesses. Now both ends of his spine are being used like handholds, keeping him firmly in one place. The final threat comes much more softly. A cold circle of metal presses against the flesh of his cheek. The unmistakable circle that marks the end of a suppressed handgun. Marcus manages a third word this time, saying, “Who the fuck-“ before being interrupted once again by an increase in pressure on all three fronts. He groans and takes the hint to regress to silence.

        In front of his vision, a waterfall of black hair descends with a sadistic slowness. In it is a single streak of red. From just behind his neck, right against his ear, a voice of roses and razor blades asks, “Going to cooperate?”

        Marcus manages the smallest of nods, sweat starting to pour from his forehead.

        “Good. Now I’ve picked you because I think you can help me. However, you’re my first try and this typically takes a couple before I find the right squeeze. So let's hope you’ll be helpful and save me some time, hmm?” Questions start to race through Marcus’ mind, each scarier than the last. “Let’s start with this, real simple. Who are you drinking with tonight?”

        “A-arnold Ambrose.”

        A pause from behind his ear as he hates himself for his loss of composure, his vanity not one of the traits that’s suddenly escaped him. “Wow,” the woman says. “Maybe this will be easy if you rolled on him that fast.”

        “Hardly know him, just a casual drink with friends,” Marcus manages to eek out, having regained his senses to at least attempt a lie.

        “Uh huh, and I’m King Henry’s seventh wife.”

        “I swear, I hardly know the guys.” A half lie seems better than the full truth, even if her own knowledge seems to outstrip his.

        “And you’re here with them because…?”

        Her line of questioning doesn’t seem to have a logical through-line as far as Marcus can tell, but it’s just as easy to realize that arguing, or God forbid pointing that out, would have consequences. Painful consequences. “Business, shop talk.”

        “Tactfully vague, I like it. What kind of business?”

        Marcus tries to think of an answer but the woman almost immediately ups the pressure on his spine. “They’re investors,” he says, groaning,  engaging in another half truth.

        “Do you actually think I don’t know what their real business is?” the woman says, sounding genuinely insulted. “You think I want to pin down a fat prick in a men’s bathroom because of a conversation he’s having over some laundry detergent pricing?”

        Marcus has no comeback.

        “I’ll be honest Marcus.” Hearing his name from her lips sends a feeling of ice water down his back. That particular sense of impending doom that only people with panic attack disorders and malfunctioning parachutes get to feel. “I couldn’t give two flying shits about you. Actually, and I know this is a strong word, I think it’s safe to say I hate you. If nothing else, I hate you in your wife’s stead. I bet my bringing her up is the first time you’ll have thought about your wife since we made eye contact, huh?” She’s right, but Marcus stays utterly silent. “That’s what I thought.”

        “So what do you want?” he finally says, his fear breaking into anger as he spits the words.

        “Just a little help is all. Someone would quite like one of the bosses of the people you work for to be dead and buried.”

        “so you're, what, like an assassin or something?”

        “Oh that’s so Hollywood, I’d never use the label myself. It’s sometimes accurate — like now — but no, I’m…a doer of odd jobs.” The final words carry a tone that says she’s smiling as she speaks them, sending a cringe across Marcus’ ample frame.

        “So you’re gonna fucking kill me, that’s it?” He hates he carries an edge of panic as he speaks, but it's inescapable.

        Now her words carry the tone of someone rolling their eyes at the unparalleled stupidity of the person before them. “No, if that were the case you’d be dead already. Very dead.”

        “So you’re really just after my help, that it?”

        “That’s it. And if you agree to help, I can let you up.”

        “I promise,” he says with little thought, his mind still focusing on the pain wracking his back.

        “Remember,” she says, the pressure steadily letting off, “I have a gun and fewer qualms about using it than anyone else you’ve ever met.”

        As Marcus heaves his bulk up off the bathroom floor, he says, “Then you don’t know the people I know.” It’s a lie that he’s sure she can see right through, but he’s scrabbling for anything to give him some pull. Knowing he’s needed by her for whatever reason gives him a minor amount of security, but he doesn’t feel any more comforted by it. Maybe that’s just thanks to the imposing handgun resting casually in her palm like a third appendage, entirely too comfortable with its weight and ergonomics.

        “Feeling better?” she asks as he rubs the base of his spine and arches his back, trying to disperse the pain as much as possible.

        “Not much,” he says. “No thanks to you.”

        She glances at the crotch of his pants and shakes her head, sighing. “Even after that, you’re still ready to go? See, that’s why I didn’t ask politely and just went this route.” She wags the barrel of the gun, emphasizing her point.

        Now Marcus’ fear and anger mix with a feeling of shame and resentment. Still stretching his back, his hands creep lower, toward the waistband of his pants. “So what now?” he asks, buying time.

        “Now you go out and continue having fun with your ‘friends.’ Order another couple drinks to ease the pain in your back, and that’s it.”

        “That’s it? Then what, I just wait for you jump out of an alley and crack me over the head with a baseball bat next time?”

        “If you’re being uncooperative, sure.” She smiles as she says it.

        Marcus rolls his eyes and his fingers tuck in under his waistband. “And if I tell them why it took me so long in here and why my back hurts so damn much?”

        The woman hefts the gun and raises her eyebrows in wordless, uncaring answer.

        “Great,” Marcus says under his breath. He takes a long inhale followed by a long exhale, a decision made in his head. All the pieces are there and he’ll surely be okay. No, there’s only little evidence of the assault, but a woman in a men’s bathroom with a gun certainly tells a story all its own. Yes, he’d be okay. Julia never has to know, and Marcus can tell his story to the police and the rest will only look like self-defense.

        Marcus takes a deep breath as his hand creeps even lower. The woman is looking in her bag for something, their interaction clearly drawing to a close, but checkmate is only a move away. He steels himself and his hand dives deeper, gripping the concealed revolver that he’s never even fired, and only for this meeting with Ambrose was allowed to leave his night stand. The silver plating glints in the flat lighting of the bathroom as he brings it around to aim at the woman, his bulk telegraphing his moves like semaphore signals.

        The woman is hardly phased. Her own pistol is held casually, aiming off to Marcus’ left, but she brings it around and pulls the trigger three times. Marcus reacts as if punched each time, but the first one sends a signal to his brain that clenches every muscle — including his index finger. The little revolver makes an incredible noise in the confined space, his poor marksmanship and sudden bullet-wounds sending the round into a linoleum tile near the ceiling, spraying chunks of the stuff everywhere.

        The gunshot leaves her ears ringing, and a light snow of linoleum dust settles on her shoulders.

        “Fuck,” the woman says under her breath as Marcus stumbles backwards against the far wall, eyes wide, three dark red spots appearing in his gut, his left breast, and just below his throat. Anyone of those and he’d be dead, but all three and his fate couldn’t be much more sealed.

        Immediately the woman goes into a professional mode of acting rather than thinking, one unique to racing car drivers, soldiers, and extreme sports addicts. Marcus’ stunned expression begins to set in permanently as she pushes open the bathroom door and finds herself in the little alcove. With no place else to run, she steps into the women’s bathroom.

        She’s lucky to find herself alone in here as well, and she stands by the door, twisting the suppressor off of her pistol while she keeps her ear pressed to the door. The band is long gone, and muted screams of fear sound amidst the rapid footsteps of every patron making a break for the doors and for their own continued survival. But a few footsteps stand out.

        A few pairs of shoes grow in volume as they near the bathrooms and they become more apparent the longer she listens. Finally one of them must be in the alcove and she swings the door open, a look of terror on her face.

        At her presence, the man she heard swivels toward her, a Glock at the ready. Immediately she screams and throws her hands up. “What the hell is happening?” she shouts, throwing in a quiver at the end as if she’s just been feet from a shooting.

        “Ma’am this area isn’t safe, we-“

        “I fucking know that, do you think I didn’t hear the gun?” She descends into hysterics as she talks, and the man can barely hide his contempt at being held up by her while there’s still a potential for danger.

        “Freddie,” the man calls over his shoulder, never taking his eyes — or his pistol — off the woman. “Come get this lady outta here.”

        Freddie rounds the corner and says, “Come with me miss, let’s get you to safety,” She thanks him profusely as he escorts her to the front of the building, one hand on her back the other gripping his gun as his head swivels, looking for potential threats. The tables are all deserted, and he asks, “What’s your name miss?” simply to keep her distracted.

        “Mary,” she lies, “and it’s ma’am.”

        “Alright ma’am, my apologies.” He pushes the front doors open to where everyone is huddled, waiting. Already, there are sirens off in the distance. “Just wait here, the police will want to talk to everyone and do your best to stay calm.”

        “And you really expect me to do that?” she snaps. “I’ll be expecting a full refund for tonight’s meal.”

        Now it’s Freddie’s turn to barely contain his annoyance. “I’m sure compensation will be involved, so please just stay here while we secure the perimeter.”

        The woman rolls her eyes at his curt attitude, existing somewhere between a need to do his job and a personal desire to get the hell away from this woman, and he walks back inside, ensuring his safety is off and a round is chambered.

        The moment he’s gone, the woman drops her expression of haughty annoyance. Her face blanks to complete neutrality and she twists on a dime toward the nearest gap in the mass of the people. She pushes through a handful of diners wringing their hands and she passes an older woman with plastic surgery or an eating disorder wailing, "Has anyone seen Marcus?"

        The woman with the red streak in her hair walks away from the throng of people and, more importantly, away from the sirens, at a quick clip. Not fast enough to draw attention, but enough to get away. She’ll be on camera, people will have seen her, and of course the gun can be traced to her. As she walks, she slips the pistol from her bag and disassembles it with professional, practiced ease. Each piece gets its own dumpster, and she’s thankful she only bothered with having three rounds in the magazine in the first place so she can avoid carrying loose ammunition or tossing live rounds into a public trash can. There are vague hints as to her presence there that night, but paying cash and giving a fake name at the door means no one will ever know that Kalira helped make The Blooded Queen’s name a reality.