Nevermore (The Never Sky #2)

Chapter 3

3

H untress. Glorified thief. That was my only value to everyone that never mattered. My father, in the end, who’d traded my skill for his own pleasures. My former boss, the Maestro, who’d taught me to steal before I knew how to read. Even the others who danced on stage with me. I was only a pickpocket. A crook. But I was really fucking good at it.

I had grown up on the streets, learning from the wicked and cunning. Every lesson was a brutal necessity for survival. Each trick, each scam, each theft, a necessary step out of the filthy and desperate world I’d danced in. I clawed my way up, not out of some romantic notion of a better life, but because the alternative was a slow, painful existence.

I’d come a long way since that poisoned childhood. Which wasn’t saying much, but some people never grew up that way. They never knew the fear of starvation. The desperation found on a bone-chilling winter night. They knew nothing of self-deprecation or giving away every bit of yourself and your dignity for basic human needs.

I’d become a ballet dancer as a child, with aspirations of fawning crowds and tossed bouquets, maybe even heart-swelling love. But as I grew into a woman, those foolish dreams were swallowed whole by a man that coaxed me onto a different kind of stage. Before an audience that craved lust and a glimpse into the waning pride of a naked dancer.

With every step and spin, every inch of my skin I showed, I’d learned to lock away tiny bits of me, bits of my soul that I could protect from reality. Those pieces were only ever shown to a handful of people. I knew how to love ferociously and protect like a wild animal. Because the few that earned it, deserved it, and those that fell short were simply stepping stones to a better life.

Working for a crime lord, I’d danced among higher society, draped in stolen silks and adorned with ill-gotten jewels. I crafted a persona of elegance, but beneath it all, I was still that poor child, fighting tooth and nail to stay one step ahead so I’d never have to sleep curled up behind a pile of garbage in an alley again.

Bitter wind gnawed at my skin as I walked along unfamiliar streets. The city of Stirling differed vastly from the rotting edifice of Requiem. Every building here was made of stacked stone like looming castle walls topped with intricate carvings. I felt so small. Lost even. But nothing was as disorientating as the narrow, winding cobblestone streets and alleys. A fact the boy had failed to mention in his hurried explanation. Still, I marveled at the buildings, their stone facades weathered and worn, as if they had stood sentinel for centuries.

Horse-drawn carriages clattered along the uneven streets. The drivers hunched against the cold, their breath puffing out in misty clouds. The horses’ hooves struck the stones with a rhythmic clip-clop, but something felt wrong, opposite of Requiem. There was life among the homeless there. Dreams among the people. Here? The long faces of strangers rushing by lacked color. Vibrancy. Smothered by the dense fog creeping along the frozen streets.

The heavy air seeped into my bones, the gray, dull world stealing any sense of beauty in the vacant sky above. I pulled the stolen cloak tightly around me, its heavy fabric offering a feeble barrier against the biting cold. Each step was a battle.

As I walked, the crunch of my boots on the frosted bricks added a solitary rhythm to the cadence of the muted city. I could have danced to it, lost beneath the never sky of a foreign world.

But as of now, I was a vagabond. An intruder. With no home, no resources except what I’d stolen, and not a single plan beyond finding the Hollow. And now, apparently the Lord of the Salt. Everything was foreign and unsettling. My magic was thoroughly unanchored here in Wisteria. I’d spent a lifetime familiarizing the swell of power within me to the streets, alleys, people, and even the stones of Requiem. And though I didn’t plan to stick around this city for long, I still dragged my fingers down the walls, brushed unsuspecting strangers, and let magic unfurl enough to give me a small sense of familiarity. I could hunt almost anything. People, paths, things, but because all magic requires balance, and a price paid, I could only find the things I’d already found once. Things I’d touched and seen. Random buildings in a foreign world included. I kept my head hidden within the dark walls of the stolen cloak and continued following the directions from the eerie boy.

I knew it was foolish, but what choice did I have? Without a doubt, he’d been sent by the god of god things. And now, I was bound to my bargain with that meddling fucker.

“Don’t get too close to them,” a woman sneered, gripping her child and yanking him away from a vagrant stooped over an open fire. “Pure trash, the Salt.”

The boy, with a rigid spine and finely pressed suit, tucked in closer to his mother. “Yes ma’am.”

If I had a coin, I would have passed it on to the dirty, bearded man, if only to soothe the wound of such cruel words. Instead, I walked by, letting the warmth of his fire creep over my skin as I passed him the flask I’d stolen.

“It’s not much. But that’s all I have.”

His kind, sunken eyes met mine, the crow’s feet growing at the corners as he shared a smile, unaware of the way I brushed my fingers across his in the exchange, nor the hint of power. “I thank you, Miss. Beware the Silk.”

Salt vs Silk. Got it.

I dipped my chin and continued on my way. On and on I walked, eradicating the feeling of floating through a mysterious world with every bit of magic I planted in it. It was impossible for me to refrain from using power. Anchoring myself to people and things came as naturally as breathing. When I hunted, seeking the location of those things, that was always a choice, but I had no control over marking, beyond touching as many things as I could. Still, the use of it wore on me. Exhaustion crept in, unfamiliar and worrisome. I’d never had an issue using magic in Requiem, but I knew power was rarely an endless supply. Everything came with a cost, and for me that cost was typically light fatigue. This was heavier. As if it were taking from me.

A giant man approached, his steps sure as he held a book before his nose, eyes scanning the page rather than where he was going. I turned, looking into a warmly lit shop as I planted myself in front of him. Right on cue, he slammed into me. I’d been prepared, of course, gripping his wrist to keep us both from falling over as I… collected him, in a sense, marking him with power.

“I uh… sorry, Miss. Didn’t see you there.”

“Good book?” I asked, eyes down, so as not to be memorable.

“The Seventh War of the Division: A Lesson of Gods.”

“No.” I feigned shock. “I’ve just finished a book on the second war. Do you mind if I take a peek?”

The tall man handed the book to me with a nod just as a creepy, masked figure stepped out from around a corner up the road, the inky black robes they wore heavily contrasting everything gray around us. With a small release of power, I quickly handed the novel back to the man. “I can’t wait to get to it.”

I didn’t stick around for his reply. I’d simply wanted to mark the book. As I continued on, getting closer to the mysterious figure, the rapid pulse of curiosity within me quickly changed to an odd feeling of dread. I struggled to pull a breath into my lungs by the time I was within five paces of the ominous being standing at the mouth of the alley. But it was only a cloak. Perhaps the black mask with delicate golden filigree was odd for me, but the man hadn’t seemed concerned with the figure at all.

Maybe I should have turned and ran, but as I allowed myself the tiniest glimpse of the dark robe, the silver crest on their chest told me two very important facts. One: they were linked to a leader in some capacity, be it enforcement of law or huntsman, and two: running would paint a target on my back. The paranoia I felt was unwarranted. I’d done nothing wrong.

Two paces now, heart racing, I shoved trembling fingers into the folds of my cloak, grazing the handle of the letter opener I’d stolen from an unsuspecting merchant. The temperature dropped as I neared. Warning bells of peril pealed across my mind. My nerves, vibrating with unmatched fear, came alive the second I stepped past.

Run. Run.

But those thoughts had come too late. Strong arms reached forward and captured me, dragging me into the darkened alley as I screamed.

A massive hand slammed over my mouth. He spoke in a monotonous tone. “You stole from that man and will be punished. As stated in the Code of Arms, Section Seven-Twenty, Subsection C: Thievery shall not be tolerated within the realm. Those suspected of such crimes will submit to questioning.”

I lashed out, trying to scramble away. “Get your fucking hands off me. I stole nothing.”

I was strong and limber and had stamina for days. Pushing off the adjacent wall with my feet, I sent us both careening down the narrow space, my adrenaline surging to life as he held his grip on me. He whipped me around, slamming me into the wall. The back of my head ground into the building. With long fingers wrapped tightly around my throat, I forgot about the cold. I forgot about the Hollow. I thought only of the fear. Of my own vulnerability. Of how foolish I’d been to let my guard down. Staring into the mostly hidden eyes of whatever this monstrosity was, my limbs trembled. He squeezed tighter. So tight I was sure he’d sever my head from my body with pure brute strength.

“You will submit to testing.” His voice was so eerie, muffled behind the dark mask, I couldn’t tell if it’d been in my head or spoken aloud, but it coated my fear all the same. “Stop fighting.”

“Go ask him if he is missing something,” I grunted, swinging an elbow until it bounced off his hard head.

“Enough of this.” With only that as a warning, a fist of steel cracked my skull, connecting with my eye. Stars exploded across my vision. Searing pain followed. I could only see out of one eye now, the other rapidly swelled shut as terror threatened to overwhelm me and my body stilled.

Fight back , I pleaded with myself. Be strong.

My lungs burned, desperate for air around his firm grip. I thought of Death’s Maiden, an assassin in a world of immortals who took no shit and succumbed to no one. A woman who’d become a friend to me when I hadn’t deserved her. If I died here and now, would our reunion be a celebration or an admittance of my defeat? And then how long until the realms fell because of it?

Fingers still tightly locked around my throat, the cloaked man pulled me from the wall, lifting until my feet dangled. I tried to pry him away to no avail. I kicked him between the legs, but the bastard didn’t flinch. As my vision continued to worsen, I did the only other thing I could think of. I sank my thumbs into the holes of his mask, burying them into his eye sockets. His scream was more of a guttural howl, an inhuman bellow that originated from the depths of his tortured soul. It echoed through the narrow alleyway, bouncing off the grimy walls and gaining momentum with every ricochet. A wet, squelching sensation encompassed me as my thumbs buried further into the soft jelly of his eyes, and my stomach rolled with revulsion. But I fought back the bile burning my throat. I could not be weak. Fragility was only for people that’d never been broken. Those that were forged in the fire of their own ruin became harder, sharper, unable to shatter again. Or so I tried to convince myself.

The man’s grip around my neck loosened, and he staggered backwards, releasing a string of garbled curses. His hands flew up to cover his ruined eyes, and he stumbled, falling to the ground with a heavy thud.

I gasped for breath. Desperate to keep from panicking further. I couldn’t be caught. I couldn’t be bound to this world in any capacity. Each gulp of air was like inhaling shards of glass; sharp and cold, they stabbed my lungs until tears filled in my eyes. My throat burned from the trauma, every beat of my pulse throbbed painfully against the tender flesh.

Pushing myself onto shaky legs, I looked down at the writhing form of my attacker. Blood seeped from beneath his hands where they were pressed against his face. He moaned and rolled. His body convulsed in pain. But I felt no mercy. No remorse. Fucker.

Through my one good eye, I watched the man turning to the side with a groan. His hand slipped in the puddle of blood, but still he tried to rise.

What the fuck?

He was relentless, a monster that refused to stay down. My mind raced, desperately searching for a way out of this nightmare when I remembered the letter opener in my pocket. I lunged forward, a scream tearing from my raw throat as the blade plunged into his chest, piercing through layers of dark fabric and sinking into yielding flesh. I watched, holding my breath as he took his last.

His last.

I’d killed a man.

In Requiem, murder was a rarity, a fate delivered by one person only. I turned, retching violently onto the grimy alley floor. The acrid stench of vomit mingled with the coppery tang of blood, creating a nauseating smell that clung to my throat, gagging me. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, smearing a streak of red across my skin.

My back collided with the frozen wall, sending a chill so penetrating through me, I stood frozen, replaying the last moments. I’d fought men before, sword in hand, cutting them down. But there was comfort in knowing they wouldn’t die. That if their deaths came, that marking would never be on my soul. Only the Maiden’s.

But if I’d killed a man—I gasped. Orin would come.

Tears blurred my vision as I sank to my knees, the icy cobblestones biting into my skin. I wanted to go back to Death’s Court, to find another way to Requiem. To the familiar streets and the comforting embrace of those I loved. Fuck this awful, dingy, colorless place. I needed the warmth and simplicity of stage lights, the rush of adrenaline as I danced, and the sense of belonging I’d fought so hard to achieve. The simplicity of winning over a crowd and walking away at the end of a show. Because I was not a hero. And this task was too great.

I knelt there, waiting for him as a figure emerged from around the corner. Hope flared in my chest, a desperate prayer that it was Orin. But it was not Death, come to reap a soul. It was another of the masked guards. His dark robes billowed in the frigid wind.

He looked down at his fallen comrade, then back at me. I gave him no time to react. I bolted to my feet and dashed the opposite way down the alley, but half blinded, I didn’t see the other two. Nor did I see the fist before it slammed into my face. The second blow struck like a thunderbolt, a searing flash of pain exploding behind my eyes. My head snapped back, skull cracking again against the unyielding stone wall. Stars burst across my vision in dazzling pinpricks of light before everything went dark. Why the hell hadn’t Orin come?