Chapter 1 Zaria
ZARIA
THREE DAYS EARLIER
Zaria Mendoza had been held at gunpoint far too many times for one day.
It was an absurd thought to have as she approached the stagecoach waiting at the end of Horseferry Road, but her mind had long since stopped processing things logically.
The fear settling in her chest was accompanied by a not-insignificant amount of resentment.
First she’d stolen from London’s Great Exhibition, betraying Kane in the process.
Then she’d returned to the pawnshop only to find Alexander Ward waiting there.
And then she’d watched Kane kill Ward—the man he’d both hated and loved—only to come unhinged and set the pawnshop on fire.
All of that was to say, the last thing she needed was for the stint she’d pulled on a former client to catch up with her.
“In.” The girl at Zaria’s back jammed the barrel of the gun between her shoulder blades.
Zaria started, eyes fixed on the gloved hand of whomever was waiting inside the stagecoach.
Mister Vaughan, no doubt. The man to whom she’d delivered a faulty explosive.
He was holding the stagecoach door ajar, and though she couldn’t yet see his face, she could only imagine the expression there.
After everything, was this to be the end for her? It seemed almost unbearably unfair.
She clenched her fingers more firmly around the necklace in her pocket.
Though she hadn’t yet taken it out, she could tell what it was by the way it seemed to pulse against her skin.
Somehow—for some reason—Kane had given her the primateria source.
It didn’t make any sense. He was adept at sleight of hand, sure, but Zaria couldn’t recall being close to him in the moments after he’d snatched the necklace from Ward’s cooling body.
More to the point, why would he want her to have it?
After everything she’d done, she couldn’t see a single reason for Kane to help her.
Because the source would help her. It was why she’d snatched it from under his nose in the first place. It was the only way she could keep practicing alchemology without destroying herself in the process, and Kane knew as much.
She was still reeling as she sank onto the firm leather seat of the stagecoach, the girl with the gun clambering in behind her. With her broad shoulders and muscled arms, she was more imposing than the slight man who now sat across from them.
“Miss Mendoza.” The man removed his hat and extended a hand. “A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”
Zaria shoved her apprehension aside, arranging her face into an expression of cool confidence.
It was the demeanor she adopted whenever she engaged in business dealings, and though it was certain to be of little help here, she let it wash over her with practiced ease.
Finally relinquishing the necklace, she grasped the man’s gloved fingers. “Likewise. Mister Vaughan, I take it?”
The man’s smile was tight-lipped, not quite reaching his blue eyes.
He looked to be in his forties, with prominent features, pale skin, and dark hair that was starting to gray.
If the stagecoach hadn’t marked him as someone of status, his outfit would have done the trick; he was dressed according to the latest fashions, his black ensemble uncreased and well-made. Zaria disliked him at once.
This fact was only cemented when he said, “You’ve found yourself in all sorts of trouble now, haven’t you?”
She didn’t answer, glancing out the tiny window. Gray clouds still billowed into the air above Horseferry—eighteen years of her life and work up in smoke alongside George Zhao’s smoldering pawnshop. The acrid scent of it infiltrated the stagecoach.
“I’m Evan Pritchard,” the man continued.
“Mister Vaughan’s most trusted, as it were.
Don’t roll your eyes, Maisie,” he snapped, attention suddenly flicking to the girl at Zaria’s side, whose lips were pursed.
Collecting himself once more, Pritchard folded his gloved hands in his lap.
“Vaughan is far too busy to chase after those who have disappointed him. And you have disappointed him, Miss Mendoza. An explosive meant to destroy only organic matter—is that not what he commissioned from you?”
Zaria inclined her chin. “Yes, but—”
“You can imagine his disappointment, then, when the detonation of the faulty device caused quite a scene. And if there’s one thing my employer doesn’t like, it’s being disappointed.”
“My intention was not to disappoint,” Zaria said, keeping her voice measured.
“The explosive wasn’t faulty. I know what I’m doing, Mister Pritchard.
But alchemological supplies are expensive, and I didn’t have the soulsteel required to properly complete the job.
I knew I wouldn’t be granted another extension, so I delivered what I had. ”
“Which was nothing but a regular bomb,” the girl—Maisie—snapped. A pink flush had crept into her lightly freckled cheeks. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you the moment I tracked you down. Do you know how it made me look? Delivering a device that didn’t work as promised?”
Zaria had a vague recollection of Maisie inspecting the commission the night she’d come to collect it on Vaughan’s behalf.
It was obvious then that the girl was familiar with alchemology, even if she hadn’t been able to identify any issues.
And why should she? Zaria was careful. She knew how the dark market worked, and how the most impressive magical items were those indistinguishable from their nonmagical counterparts.
“Oddly enough, your reputation didn’t factor into my decision,” Zaria retorted, irritation prickling along her spine.
She knew it wasn’t smart, speaking this way to someone holding a gun, but she was just so tired.
“Like I said, I didn’t have the supplies I needed.
It had nothing to do with my inability to create what Mister Vaughan was asking for.
Please pass along my sincerest apologies. ”
Maisie let out a disbelieving snort, and Pritchard silenced her with a look.
To Zaria, he said, “Vaughan is well aware of your capabilities. That’s part of the reason he was so disappointed.
There are precious few alchemologists in London as it is, which I’m sure you know, and most are highly specialized.
You, though—you can create a wide variety of items, like your father.
That’s why he’s willing to give you a second chance. ”
Rather than feeling relieved, Zaria tensed in her seat. “What do you mean?”
“Did you think Vaughan wouldn’t recognize aleuite when he sees it?
” Maisie cut in. “Everyone’s talking about what went down at the Exhibition.
They’re already trying to pass it off as a malfunction with one of the displayed steam engines, but anyone with dark market connections knows what really happened. ”
“You caused quite the stir, Miss Mendoza,” Pritchard said smoothly. Then, in response to her look of horror: “Yes, Vaughan knows it was you. I understand the Waterhouse exhibit was left in quite a state, too.”
“How does he know all this?”
“That’s not important.”
Zaria brought her teeth together, then spoke through them.
“I’d never even heard of your employer until I saw his name in my father’s list of commissions.
His alias, that is,” she amended, remembering how Kane had looked into the matter and discovered nobody involved in the dark market went by that name.
“Regardless, Vaughan knows what you’re capable of, and you interest him.
” Pritchard tilted his head to one side.
Deciding how much to tell her, no doubt.
“You see, he’s made considerable strides when it comes to his status in this city.
One might even call him the kingpin of the Covent Garden area. ”
“You mean Seven Dials,” Zaria said, referring to the slum in London’s West End. She’d rarely had occasion to go there, but she knew it wasn’t dissimilar to Devil’s Acre, which meant Vaughan was undoubtedly the Alexander Ward of that area. The thought made her uneasy. “So you’re part of his crew.”
Maisie’s expression tightened further, but Pritchard smiled again.
“Something like that. As I said, considerable strides. My employer’s influence is growing, Miss Mendoza.
He’s clever. He understands an asset when he sees one, and he isn’t so quickly moved to violence. A relief for you, I would imagine.”
Zaria gave a noncommittal shrug, unable to ascertain where this was going.
“If one wants to extend that sphere of influence to the dark market, it’s imperative that one participate in it, no?”
“I suppose.”
Maisie let out a harsh sigh. “Get to the point, Evan. She’s obviously not going to make it there on her own.”
Pritchard waved Maisie’s words away, his impassive gaze locked with Zaria’s suspicious one. “Vaughan is aware of your allegiance to Alexander Ward, and his offer involves changing that allegiance. Rather drastically, I might add.”
“I’m not—” Zaria began, then stopped herself.
Admitting she was not, in fact, connected to Ward might well mean the difference between getting shot and leaving this stagecoach alive.
In the same vein, it didn’t strike her as prudent to reveal that Ward was currently dead beneath the rubble of the pawnshop. “I’m listening.”
“Mister Vaughan wishes to continue to grow his influence even further. As a result, what he requires most is information.”
Zaria had been shifting in her seat, fingers roaming the vertical stitching. At Pritchard’s words, however, she froze, a harsh laugh bursting from her lips. “Are you asking me to spy on the dark market kingpin?”
“I wouldn’t call it spying.”
“Just because you wouldn’t call it that doesn’t mean it’s not.”