Reckless, p.6
Reckless, page 6
I clumsily toss another coin atop his cart, willing it to roll off the worn wood. Silver glints in the lazily setting sun before the coin hits the ground with a satisfying clink. “Oh, I’m sorry, Francis! I’m not yet used to the heat and my hands are disgustingly sweaty at all times.”
He blinks, his tanned face blank beneath his scarf, aside from the obvious disdain for me. When he bends to pick up the silver that is my current partner in crime, I snatch two more loaves from his stand with deft hands, one from each tower of dough so as not to draw suspicion. “I mean, I am never not drenched in sweat,” I continue casually while Francis straightens, brushing off the dirty coin with his thumb. “Seriously, how do you stay cool under all those layers? I feel so sticky that I—”
“This is our winter season,” he grunts, cutting me off.
I blink at him. “Oh. Well, that’s… terrifying.”
Despite Dor being fairly close in proximity to Ilya, I grew up with revolving seasons, though our winters were thankfully mild. I hadn’t realized how drastically the weather could differ beyond the expanse of a desert. While the west winds blow cool air from the Shallows toward Ilya, Dor is blessed with the grainy heat of the Scorches constantly wafting into its city. Heat is a familiar inhabitant of its home.
“You will never survive famine season, pale thing.” He stares at me for a long moment in which I silently struggle to get my voice to work.
A dry laugh breaks the unbearable silence, and my eyes shoot up to his. Francis places a sun-soaked hand atop his belly, shaking with rough laughter. I hesitantly join him with an uncomfortable laugh of my own. “You are funny, pale thing,” he adds between chuckles.
I sigh in relief, sagging with the hope that my ignorance will earn Francis’s favor. “Glad to hear my sweaty suffering is humorous to you,” I say lightly, taking the loaf he extends to me.
His chuckling continues as he tears another loaf in half with more than a little effort. “Here.” He waves it at me before I tentatively take it. “Go find some shade to eat this under.”
I offer him my thanks, swallowing guilt at the feel of two stolen loaves weighing down the inside pockets of my vest. Francis is still laughing as I turn away, causing a small smile to tug at my lips behind the fabric swallowing most of my face.
Perhaps he is warming up to me, after all.
I look down at my arms, now far tanner than they were a week ago, prior to trudging through the Scorches. Even despite that, I’m still fairer than most of those who have spent their lives in Dor. Scanning the busy streets, I admire their dark skin, smooth and shining in the sunlight—like the rays themselves are old friends, stroking their skin with familiar fingers.
Tugging the thin fabric lower down my forehead, I push through the mass of bodies swarming the streets. My eyes snag on a crinkled poster, hung precariously against a crumbling shop wall. I scowl, sliding through the crowd to stand before the face that mirrors mine. I stare at the girl reflecting my own features, her eyes full of terror and rage.
I swallow, blinking back tears I refuse to let fall.
This must be a replica of what the Sight recorded after spotting me moments after killing the king—the crime I’d committed written all over my weary face. I can almost feel the blood that drenched my hands, covered my broken body. My hand drifts to the scar trailing below my jaw, my fingers fumbling to the letter carved above my heart.
I can’t bear to look at it any longer, can’t bear to relive that moment more than I already do.
I can’t bear to look into the face of a murderer.
With shaking fingers, I rip the poster from the wall, crumpling it in my fist before shoving it into the pack slung over my shoulders. When I stumbled into the city that first night after my tussle with the guard—
The man you killed and left to rot.
—I’d nearly run into a wall plastered with my face. My silver hair gleamed in the moonlight, and even while being dulled with sand, there was no mistaking that I was the perfect replica of the wanted Silver Savior staring back at me. Any sort of oddly colored hair is a dead giveaway as to having Plagued blood running through your veins, whether you are Ordinary or Elite.
And after spending a life of insignificance and hiding in plain sight, I stuck out like a sore thumb. I’ve never felt so exposed, so out of the ordinary.
I spent the night atop the crumbling roof of a shop, nursing my wounds and hiding until an early sunrise painted the streets golden. Only then did I brave slipping a scrappy scarf from a merchant’s cart to wrap around my face and traitorous silver hair. Lucky for me, it’s not at all unusual to protect your face from both the sun and whipping sand throughout the day. And, just like that, I was blissfully invisible again.
A shoulder collides with my own, startling enough to shake me from my stupor. The young boy tosses what I think is an attempted apologetic nod before he’s back to shoving through the crowded street. Taking a deep breath, I tug at my scarf while pretending to look like I belong here. The people of Dor are more than a little rough around the edges—dare I say akin to the jagged scraps of metal Father used to have me pelt at the gnarled tree in our backyard.
My eyes skim over the street, finding countless confrontations and their accompanying shouts. Sparring, both physically and verbally, is clearly a common occurrence. And if the guards aren’t yawning with boredom or barely batting an eye, they’ve likely joined the fight themselves.
These people are as gruff as the sand they crawled out of.
I spot a tattered awning hanging precariously from a shop wall, promising a tempting sliver of shade.
Might as well take Francis’s advice.
After nearly tripping over a cluster of children weaving through the streets, I ungracefully fold myself into the splinter of shade, rubbing my sore muscles. Chewing is a generous term for the effort it takes to swallow the stale bread, seeing that I can now add my jaw to the ever-growing list of aches and pains. But I spend what little remains of the day hiding from the scorching sun and incriminating posters leering at me.
I need money.
That one thought has plagued my mind, pounding through my head with every hour spent in this new city I’m desperate to make a home. The coins clinking in my pack feel far too light for my liking, and unfortunately for me, Dor’s inhabitants are anything but careless with the livelihood that lives within their pockets. My attempts at thievery outside what decorates the merchants’ carts has been minimal, to say the least. I’m almost embarrassed.
With the sun setting and the heat retreating with it, I zigzag through the city in search of the roof I’ve grown fond of sleeping atop.
I need money. Money means shelter. It means food. It means…
A will to live.
“… three silvers Slick will win. The bastard’s undefeated.”
The rumbling voice distracts me from my spiraling thoughts. Boredom and curiosity mingle to create a dangerous concoction of intrigue that has me leaning against an alley wall, intent on eavesdropping.
Another man scoffs, his accent thick. “Undefeated, eh? Maybe ’cause the mate’s only fought ’n three matches. Lucky bastard is what he is.”
“You bettin’ on a rookie then, aye?” The first man leers.
“I’ll decide when I see ’em.” He laughs then, a gruff sound I doubt he makes often. “Maybe I’ll get in the ring. Show ’em how it’s done, eh?”
Rough laughter drifts down the alley as I casually step away from the wall to stroll at a safe distance behind them. Every bit of me itches for excitement, for something to occupy me other than my troubling thoughts.
And where there are bets, there is money to be won.
And where there is money to be won, there is money to be stolen.
* * *
An elbow sinks into my stomach, sucking the air from my lungs.
I push through the crowd, trying my best not to drown in the sea of sweaty bodies. Shouts and sneers ripple through the cellar, all directed at the caged violence on display, though I can hardly see it.
I’m being suffocated by sticky bodies, forced to peek through slivers of space in the wall of shoulders. Annoyed, I whip my head around, nearly smacking it into the one directly behind me. I’ve already lost the two men I followed down here after copying the sequence of knocks they wrapped on the hidden door. I drum the pattern on my leg, engraining it in my memory even as I attempt to weave through the crowd.
I recognize the sound of fists finding flesh, though I’m far more interested in the pockets of those I’m wedged between. I attempt a subtle swipe of my hand toward the body beside me, only to be shoved from the back by a bellowing man.
I blow out a breath, feeling people pressed against me.
How am I supposed to steal if I can barely move my arms?
My fingers curl into a fist at my side while I fight the urge to throw it at someone.
I blink, eyes flying toward the cage and bloody brawl within.
I can get paid to throw a punch if it’s in there.
An entirely new, foolish plan begins to form as I attempt to push through the crowd once again. I’m greeted with more elbows to the stomach and shoulders to the face that I ignore in my search of whoever runs this illegal fighting ring.
The fight finishes in a final bloody blow by the time I stumble to the front. Curses and cheers echo through the cellar, everyone’s mood suddenly dependent on who they did or didn’t bet on.
“Betting tickets! You lot know the drill. Bring up your betting tickets and we’ll get your cut sorted out!”
I follow the crudely formed line leading to a rickety table beside the cage. A strand of silver hair threatens to slip from beneath my scarf, and I quickly tuck it back with the rest as I strain to see the man exchanging tickets for coins.
His slicked ponytail shines in the dim light he stands beneath, his back bent over a mound of tickets. He wastes no time plonking the appropriate number of coins into each hand, barely bothering to glance at the person before him.
“Your ticket?”
I blink at his outstretched hand, stunned by how quickly I’m suddenly standing before him. “No, sorry, I actually wanted to talk to you about fighting in the ring.”
“No ticket,” he sighs without looking up at me, “no talking.”
I shake my head, stepping closer until my hips meet the edge of the table. “But—”
“Next!”
His shout has a woman stepping beside me without a second thought. After being shoved aside when she hands over her ticket, I plant my feet at the end of the table.
“Let me fight.”
“Listen, kid.” He rubs a hand over his tired eyes before inspecting the next ticket. “I don’t just let anyone fight in my ring. Besides”—he throws me a glance—“you’d get eaten alive in there. So, scram.”
Flattening my palms on the table, I lean in close enough to catch the flash of a gold watch on his wrist and the smell of cologne on his skin.
He’s better off than half this city.
“I want a fair cut. Whatever the rest of your fighters are earning,” I say smoothly. “Though I expect to be making more than them in no time.”
At that, he reluctantly lifts his head, meeting my gaze as he holds a hand up to halt the line. “I said scram, kid. While I’ll still let you.”
I tilt my head innocently, eyes narrowing slightly. “It would be a shame if the guards were to find out about the illegal cage-fighting you’re running down here.” I nod toward the shiny watch decorating his thick wrist. “It seems you’ve become quite accustomed to wealth. I doubt it would be easy for you to readjust to the poverty you crawled out of.”
Though fighting is clearly not outlawed here in Dor, considering how common of an occurrence it is, gambling on said fighters is where they decided to draw the line—explaining the cramped cellar with a fancy knock to allow you access.
A smile begins to form at the corner of his mouth, as though he possesses a sort of corrupted charisma. “Are you threatening me?” He laughs, harsh and biting. “You can’t threaten me, kid. I’ll have my men tear you to pieces. I practically own this city.”
“You’ve never seen me fight.” I shrug nonchalantly. “So, if I need to return them to you in pieces just to prove myself, I suppose I’ll have to do just that.”
The thought of ripping anyone to pieces makes me queasy, but the look I pin him with says anything but. Several slow seconds tick by before a smile spreads across his lips. “I like your spirit, kid.”
I swallow my relief. “Is that a yes?”
“You fight in an hour.” He pulls out a sheet of parchment inked with the names of previous fighters and how much they earned him. “I’m givin’ you a shot, so don’t disappoint me, kid. You don’t wanna know what happens when I’m disappointed.”
I nod, hiding my smile. “I doubt I’ll ever find out.”
He shakes his head in disbelief, looking as though he already regrets his decision. “Yeah, we’ll see about that. I’m Rafael.” His eyes flick up to my concealed face. “And what should we call you, kid?”
My eyes skim over the cage and the flickering lights above it. A small smile manages to curve my lips, tugging gently at my scar.
“Shadow.”
CHAPTER 10 Kai
Even the moonlight feels warm here.
Pale silver rays slip between the cracks of buildings and banners, like frail fingers desperate to claw through anything in their way. I tug at the bandanna tied around my mouth and nose; the blood-red fabric intended to keep the blowing sand from my mouth, though it grinds between my teeth nonetheless.
I’ve abandoned my Imperials for the night, just as I’ve done the previous four since we’d arrived in Dor. I spent most of the day alone, scouting the streets along with any possible crevice she could have climbed into. Every time I pull back a banner, push open a decaying door, ask if someone has seen the Silver Savior, she evades me at every turn.
She’s a phantom in human form. Like trying to clutch the wind in your fist, unable to see it even while feeling it slip between your fingers.
And the knowledge of that has me feeling something pathetically too close to relief.
Tonight is warmer than most, leaving me sticky with both sweat and sand. I turn down a quiet street, feeling slightly unsettled by the silence that swallows this city each evening. If I were to take a wild guess, I’d say it’s because everyone is worn out after a long day of fighting in the streets and pushing through the current of bodies.
I glance at a passing guard who looks anything but alert. I take a deep breath, swallowing the urge to pick a fight out of sheer curiosity as to what the lazy bastard would do. They’re worse than most of the Imperials back home, and that’s saying something.
My lack of power here weighs on me, a dull buzz in my blood. I feel oddly heavy despite missing a piece of myself. Unlike the other Elites, my ability relies on those around me, and the Imperials I brought to Dor are the only bit of power I have to feed off. After spending the entirety of my life surrounded by Elites, the absence of them and their accompanying powers is so foreign, it’s frightening.
I’ve never felt so exposed.
A sudden, slight pressure at my hip has me tensing, tentatively reaching for my concealed dagger. Well, her concealed dagger.
The coin pouch.
That’s what they’re after.
That’s what she was after too, that first day I met her.
Could this be her? Could she be repeating history without even realizing it?
There’s no way in hell that even she’d be ballsy enough to steal from me knowing that it’s me. My heart pounds, both my head and pulse racing.
Turn around.
I swallow, savoring the seconds in which I still stand within the unknown.
Turn around and look at her. Look at the face that took your father’s life. The face that didn’t just steal your money, but also your h—
I hook a foot behind me, catching an ankle of the thief silently stealing my silvers. With a tug, I send them tumbling to the ground.
Sloppy. Not her style.
Sure enough, the body sprawled before me doesn’t belong to a woman, but a girl. My eyes widen, both in surprise and in an attempt to see through the thickening darkness. In a matter of moments, the girl’s palms are pushing her backward as she tries to put some space between us, her worn boots kicking up dust as they scrape against the ground.
I take a light step toward her, crouching slightly to get a better look at—
The tip of a blade is suddenly pointed at my face.
I blink. That was… unexpected, to say the least.
Raising my hands slightly in surrender, I start to take a step away, my eyes pinned on the weapon clutched within a delicate hand. My gaze narrows on the engravings peeking between the small fingers wrapped around the hilt.
I know this knife.
My eyes shoot up to the tousled hair crowding around a pale face.
Red.
“Abigail,” I breathe.
She’s alive.
It’s a miracle she made it across the Scorches after I banished her and the family who harbored her.
The knife is shaking in her hand now, but her voice has a steady sort of softness. “How—how do you know my name?”
I pull the bandanna from my face before slowly inching closer to her, my hands held where she can see them. As way of answering, I say, “It seems you’ve been putting my knife to use.”
Her eyes widen with something akin to childlike wonder, though her awe is anything but pleasant. “You,” she says, her tone bordering accusation. “What are you doing here?” I open my mouth to respond, but her small voice fills the silence before I have a chance. “Are you here to kill me? For real this time?”
The twinge of hurt I feel at her words sends a shock through me. I shouldn’t be surprised by her assumption. My reputation leaves no room for speculation. I am the very thing I was created to be—a killer.
