The Law and the Codas

Chapter Eleven

"There's no need to call me by my former title," Izzer says, his words coated in a thick, southern drawl.

In a former life, his accent had been part of his charm, but not here - here his words could end my life.

With a flick of his wrist, he motions for us to sit, while he shuffles across the floor and pockets a silver lighter. Della's the first to move, sweeping silent and deadly in her black socks over the tile before settling cross-legged onto a couch. A pleased moan escapes her mouth as the supple leather clamors to encase her.

Izzer gravitates toward the high-backed leather chair, a smile flirting with the corners of his mouth. He sits and it's like a king has returned to his throne. Blue eyes, bloodshot yet sharp, inhale every last detail of the space and the people now occupying it.

Izzer's gaze roams over each of us, starting from our heads and going to our toes, before moving on to the next. I stiffen when his eyes drift back to me, like two wayward ships that have finally glimpsed the salvation of a lighthouse.

Izzer snorts, as though he could see through the flesh and muscle, bone and sinew, and glimpse my core, where the fear I house for him continues to bloom. "Well aren't you ever the boring bunch."

He returns his attention to Della, Izzer's gnarled, scarred hand plucks a crystal decanter off a table to his right and raises it for Della's inspection. Amber liquid sloshes against its sides. Her eyes go just the slightest bit wide. "Just one," she says, nodding.

Izzer sets the decanter on the table between them, reaches for two tumblers and begins to pour. "There's no need to limit yourself, Dells."

"It's against my code to drink while on a job," Della says, plucking up the half-full glass and taking a gulp. Her brow furrows, as a sigh escapes her lips. "Got ice?"

Izzer nods, turns back to the little side table and grabs a small, silver container and matching tongs. Chilled smoke rises upward when he removes the lid. Della holds her glass out expectantly as Izzer fishes around for two ice cubes before plunking them into her drink. The glass immediately frosts over. Drink in hand, Izzer leans back in his chair and runs a finger along the rim.

He appears more interested in staring at the liquid than swallowing it. "You know the Forge is safe. No need to worry about our guests. Feel free to enjoy yourself here." A coy smile plays on the man's lips, and his blue-green eyes blaze to life.

Della chuckles. "What makes you think I enjoy being here?" She arches a brow, brings the glass to her lips again.

Izzer's gaze narrows. "I can think of a few times," he says, lowering the glass to rest it on the armrest, "when you enjoyed yourself."

Della shakes her head and brown hair flutters across her face. "Not today."

A slap rings out in the space, and our attention is redirected to Izzer. He's watching us again, smiling. "You know, when it's you and me, Dells, I always forget about everyone else." He lifts his glass. Liquid spills over the sides, "Forgive me," he says. "Alcohol's still prohibited, isn't it?"

Rima shakes her head, though her eyes remain situated on the man's fuzzy, white rug.

"I always lobbied for them to remove that stupid rule," he undoes the diamond-shaped stopper of the decanter and begins to pour himself another. He sets the glass down and slides it toward us, grinning. "Can't win them all, I guess." He points to each of us, then the glass. "You've already broken the Facility's most coveted rule by escaping," he runs a tan finger along the slope of his jaw and stops to stroke at the salt and pepper stubble of his chin. "So, what's one more?"