Chapter 7 Zaria
ZARIA
Zaria left Mirko’s before dawn.
Partially because she couldn’t sleep—closing her eyes felt like the most agonizing kind of inaction—but mostly because she wanted to make herself scarce before George awoke.
They had nothing more to say to each other.
If she faced him again, she would undoubtedly say something she’d regret.
Something Jules might not be able to forgive her for.
And so she shoved her meager belongings into a bag, clasped the primateria source around her neck, and left.
She had the sense that it should’ve felt significant, her departure, but it hadn’t.
Mirko’s house was not her home. It had been nothing more than a place to sleep.
Still, Mirko had been courteous to her, and Zaria regretted the trouble she’d caused the man.
At least now he could have his living area back.
Despite the hunger already beginning to twist her stomach, she couldn’t fathom the thought of eating before she slunk out into the streets.
What would Kane have Jules doing? Would he make him hurt others, the way he himself had once been forced to?
Would he allow Jules to be abused by other members of the crew?
Finally, the question that terrified Zaria most: Was Kane angry enough at her that he would decide to simply kill Jules?
She knew he was capable of it. Even worse, she knew Jules wasn’t averse to provocation.
She needed to find a way to get to Kane—a way to appease him that didn’t involve her friend being trapped in some abominable form of indentured labor.
She could hardly believe she’d once kissed Kane.
That she’d yearned for the danger he represented and longed to feel the firm press of his body against hers.
That she thought about it still, unbidden, in moments she certainly shouldn’t have.
What was wrong with her, that he was the only one to have made her feel like that thus far?
What did it say about the things she was drawn to?
The slum was quiet as she ventured aimlessly in the direction of the docks, encountering nobody save a few bleary-eyed factory workers.
The longer she walked, the more her head spun and her mouth dried.
She had nowhere to go, no one to whom she could reach out.
Regardless, it wasn’t herself she worried for most—it was Jules. Every thought circled back to him.
Zaria forced herself to inhale, trying to form a plan. After all, that was what she did, wasn’t it? When she encountered a problem, she came up with a course of action. Followed a series of steps. Panic was where her chaotic mind best thrived.
It took her a moment to realize that her subconscious seemed to be a few steps ahead.
She recognized this area—knew it well, in fact.
It was near enough to the river that she could hear its dull roar, but far enough from the docks that the yells of dockers weren’t audible.
She’d always thought this a peculiar place to live, largely because nobody seemed to live here at all.
It wasn’t a residential area but a former industrial one that had been abandoned when new machinery necessitated larger factories.
Overall, it was the type of place only a couple of reclusive cons would live.
“Damn it all,” Zaria muttered, hefting her bag up higher on her shoulder.
Why had she allowed her feet to lead her in this direction?
Nothing good could come from it. She knew the kind of reception she was bound to receive.
Still, it wasn’t as though she had any other options.
She needed to get Jules away from Kane, and Kane was not the kind of man anyone could reason with.
Except, perhaps, one person.
Moore despite his umbrage, he didn’t seem to be able to stop himself from being polite. “What are you busy with?”
“I fail to see how that’s any of your business.”
“Forgive me for trying to make polite conversation.” While Fletcher dealt with her coat, she went to perch in a chair by the fireplace.
A painting of a wintry landscape hung above the smoldering flames, and in the far corner of the room was a dusty pianoforte.
The sight of it sent a pang through Zaria’s chest. She quickly tore her gaze away, letting it rest on Fletcher as he came to sit opposite her and crossed his long legs.
“Go ahead,” he said. His tone was polite, his posture stiff.
Between him and Kane, he had always been more even-tempered and less inclined toward snark.
At the same time, though, it was obvious he didn’t want Zaria here, and she couldn’t entirely blame him.
It was a testament to his good nature that he’d let her in at all.
“It’s about Kane,” she said, regretting her bluntness when Fletcher failed to conceal his wince. “Sorry.”
He thrummed his fingers in his lap, tilting his head so that it rested against the back of his armchair.
Zaria saw it, then—the anguish. Maybe he was like her: easily distracted when someone or something was out of sight, but seamlessly thrust back into misery the moment a specific topic was broached.
She knew what it was to feel emotions crash over your head like a bucket of cold water, the intensity somehow tenfold once you were reminded of them.
“Have you seen Kane?” Fletcher asked. His voice remained casual, but his fingers had stilled.
“No. Have you?”
He shook his head, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “That’s why I stayed here. I thought he might… I don’t know. Come try to make amends, I suppose.”
Zaria recalled Fletcher’s face that fateful day in her workshop.
The pain of betrayal etched across his features, and how his hurt permeated the air in the moments before smoke replaced it.
But she also remembered the fear in his tone when he’d snarled Kane’s name—his obvious terror that he was about to see Kane killed by Ward’s hand.
No matter how he’d been wronged, Fletcher still cared for his friend.
“He probably thinks you don’t want him to find you. ”
“Maybe I don’t.” Fletcher’s hand formed a fist in his lap, knuckles whitening. “Forget it. What about Kane? If he’s after you, you ought to know I won’t be able to stop him.”
Zaria forced a swallow. Once she’d seen Moore & Sons looming up ahead, a plan had solidified in her mind. It was probably a terrible one. Certainly it was foolish. But it was the only plan she had, and it relied on Fletcher’s cooperation. “Kane has Jules.”