The Final Trade Read Online Free Page A

counter, refrigerator open, ingredients gathered. She does this without thinking, only moving, always moving. She’s about to stir everything together when the kitchen door flies open and bangs against the wall.
    Vidri stands in the doorway, his hunched, muscular shoulders giving away his identity even though she can’t see his face. And even if she couldn’t see him at all, she would be able to smell him. His body odor is the worst she’s ever encountered, and that’s saying something since showers and baths are rotated biweekly.
    “Morning, sunshine,” Vidri says. He motions with his head and an unfamiliar figure appears beside him, much thinner. “Tristan, this is Wen. She cooks and makes the sweets.”
    Tristan stares, dissecting her from across the kitchen. “Where’d she get a name like Wen? She don’t look Chinese.”
    “It’s short for wench,” Vidri says, stepping through the door. Tristan follows behind him. When he stops beneath the fluorescent light she sees he’s been drinking already. Without a word she turns to the fridge and retrieves a covered container, spooning a dollop of chocolate pudding into a bowl before sliding it to Vidri. He doesn’t look at the dessert but continues to stare at her.
    “It’s more than last time,” Wen says. “It’s as much as I can spare without someone noticing.”
    Vidri places a dirty index finger into the chocolate and dips some out. He looks at it for a moment and licks the chocolate away before sauntering around the counter.
    “Here, let me thank you,” he says.
    Wen shakes her head. “No.”
    “Come on, it’s rude not to say thanks.” He corners her and she leans away, the cabinet behind her pressing into her back. Vidri moves closer, his odor overpowering. It coats the back of her throat and nasal passages. If she weren’t so used to it she would vomit all over him.
    Vidri leans in and presses his mouth against hers. The touch of his lips along with his stench makes her want to shudder.
    Vidri’s lips part as he pushes his tongue against her teeth. After what seems like hours he steps back. “That’s my love,” he whispers. “You know I’ve been talking to them about us. Think I’m wearing them down. Soon I’ll get permission and you’ll stay in my tent at night.” He brushes her cheek with one finger, rubbing it against her lower lip. The urge to bite him is almost too much. She can imagine the satisfaction of her teeth coming together, skin parting, bone cracking, Vidri screaming and dropping to his knees.
    He withdraws his finger, looking at it before putting it in his mouth, sucking on it obscenely.
    Without another word he turns and moves past the counter, grabbing the little bowl and spoon as Tristan follows. Vidri throws a last wink over his shoulder before they exit the kitchen, letting the door bang shut behind them.
    Tears start to come to her eyes as she turns toward the sink, but she blinks them away, bending over before turning on the tap and filling her mouth with cold water. She swishes it around, spits, and does it again and again until she can’t taste Vidri anymore.
    Wen sets about heating a smaller pan on the stove, opening a window as she does to let the desert air usher out Vidri’s smell. In less than ten minutes she has the two egg-white omelets made, just the right amount of cheese dripping out of the side, a garnishing of chives on the top of each one.
    A little trill of fear goes through her as she resumes stirring the contents of a bowl she’d been working on when Vidri had interrupted her. This isn’t even the dangerous part. If she were caught now there would be some excuses she could offer. If she were caught after this there are none. Even being a woman she might be brought to the guillotine at high noon wherever they stopped, forced to kneel before the entire trade, and the last sound she’d hear would be the rasping slide of death as the weighted blade fell toward the back of her neck.
    The thought