Something stabbed the back of her leg. Even as she whipped around, her thigh went numb, her leg rubbery. An opium dart. Oh, fuck. She ripped it out, too late. Pumped with this amount, her mind was already spinning. Hallucinating. A drunkard rose from a pile of rags, wearing the gaunt face of a dead man.
No, not a drunkard. A handsome liar.
Archimedes Fox.
Yasmeen fumbled for her guns. Her fingers were enormous. He moved fast—or she was slow. Within a blink, he caught her hands, restrained her with barely any effort.
She’d kill him for that.
“Again?” he asked, so smooth and amused. “You’ll have to try harder.”
The bastard. She hadn’t tried at all. And though she tried now, she sagged against him, instead—and for a brief moment, she wondered if she’d fallen against a zombie. Each of his ribs felt distinct beneath her hands.
But zombies didn’t swing women up into their arms. And they didn’t talk.
“My sister sends her regards,” he said against her cheek. “And I want my sketch.”
“I’d have given it to you.” She couldn’t keep her eyes open. Her words slurred. “You just had to ask.”
“Liar,” he said softly.
Ah, well. He was right about that.