Chapter 7 Zaria
ZARIA
THE NEXT DAY PASSED IN A BLUR OF ANXIETY.
BETWEEN THE deal involving the faulty explosive and what she’d overheard from George’s office, Zaria felt trapped in a corner.
Jules had stopped by her room shortly after she’d gone to bed, showing her the salve the Hoffmans had given him for his swollen nose, and it had taken every ounce of her self-control to force a grim smile when he reassured her—once again—that they would find a way to get her more soulsteel.
She hated keeping things from Jules. The weight of all she wasn’t saying was a physical sensation pressing down on her from every angle.
George had left shortly after the kingpin’s men last night, and Zaria had pretended nothing was amiss, returning his curt nod as he swept outside.
She’d wondered where he was going. If there was any possible way he would be able to pay his debts in a mere fortnight.
She sincerely doubted it. George’s capacity for outright denial was unmatched.
If she knew him at all, he would pretend last night hadn’t happened and carry on as he always did.
Not for the first time, she considered talking to him, but she knew from experience it wasn’t likely to make a difference.
In the end, she’d spent much of today simply trying to avoid Jules.
It turned out to be easy; he was still contending with all the items that had been pledged yesterday.
Every week followed the same pattern: People from all over the slum made their pledges on Monday, then returned Saturday to redeem them.
By then, they would have received their weekly wages, and as a result, Saturday was known in pawnshops as redemption day.
Would that cycle come to a halt in two weeks’ time?
It went without saying that Zaria would rather see the pawnshop close than see Jules forced to work for the kingpin, but the idea still unnerved her.
No matter how she tried to convince herself it could be a positive thing—wasn’t she always looking for an excuse to get out of here?
—she knew that it would only make their lives worse.
They’d end up homeless, forced to sleep in filth and pick up low-paying factory jobs.
Penniless, they likely wouldn’t even make it out of Devil’s Acre.
Nausea festered in the pit of her stomach as she watched Jules organize the shop’s meager offerings. She’d come to help him close up, just as she always did, but her lack of focus was blatant.
“You okay?” Jules asked, wiping dust on the front of his trousers as he finished with a shelf of dishware.
Zaria nodded. “Just tired.”
It was the truth—she still hadn’t recovered from the previous week’s work. But Jules knew her better than that. He snatched a gilded cane from one of the shelves, eyes narrowing as he pointed it at her. “A porkie if I’ve ever heard one.”
“I’m not lying!”
“See, here’s the thing,” Jules said, letting the cane drop. “It makes no sense for you to deny it when we both know I’m smarter than that. I know you’re not okay, Zaria. I get it. But we’ll get through it like we always do.”
She nodded again, trying to push away the mental image she couldn’t stop conjuring: one of Jules pointing a real weapon, expression cold as he carried out the kingpin’s warped version of justice.
“You know what I think?”
But Zaria never did find out what Jules thought. He trailed off, consternation twisting his features, as the door to the pawnshop gave an audible click.
They both froze in place. Jules’s eyes, as wide as dinner plates, met Zaria’s through the candlelight.
Wind? he mouthed.
She gave a single shake of her head, hissing, “You locked it. I’m certain.”
Thieves in the slum didn’t limit themselves to picking pockets, and Zaria had forgotten her knife in her workshop when she’d changed clothes earlier. Her heart was frantic as she took a step closer to Jules, scanning the shelves for something to use as a weapon.
The door swung open, a whip-quick motion.
A shadowy figure stepped inside. It was clearly a boy: Tall and lean, clad all in black, and when the light caught the angles of his face, Zaria realized she knew him.
“Who the hell are you?” Jules demanded. “We’re closed, and it’s well past visiting hours.”
The only response was a soft laugh. The boy shut the door and moved more fully into the candlelight’s illumination.
Yes, Zaria thought, that slicked-back hair, those sharp features, the overconfident set of his shoulders…
it was one of the dark market lackeys from the other night.
His elder companion was nowhere to be seen, but Zaria didn’t doubt he was close. Men like this rarely worked alone.
Zaria shot Jules a look, indicating he should be cautious. Taking a step forward, she said, “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here or why you’ve broken our door, but Saville isn’t getting his money back.”
The boy tilted his head. Kane—that was his name, she remembered now.
He had a face made for smirks and knowing glances.
The kind of face that said, I do stupid things purely out of curiosity.
Beneath that, though, his jaw was clenched, his forehead slightly furrowed.
He was as handsome as she recalled. A gal-sneaker, Zaria supposed. Typical.
“I didn’t break the door,” he said. The timbre of his voice was low, as smooth as silk. “I just picked the lock. It was disconcertingly easy, by the way. And I’m not here for money.”
“Then why are you here?” Zaria demanded. Her blood pounded in her ears.
Dark eyes flicked to her face. “I’m here for you, alchemologist.”
Zaria tensed, confusion and misgiving warring in her chest. Whatever reason Kane had to be looking for an alchemologist, she was certain it couldn’t be good. “Was there something wrong with the commission?”
“What?” Kane flicked a brow upward. The high collar of his black coat was askew, Zaria noticed, a contrast to his unruffled appearance three days prior.
“Don’t be coy,” she bit out. “I recognize you from the other night. I assume your partner’s around here too somewhere, isn’t he?”
Kane frowned, seemingly perplexed. The expression didn’t suit him. “Partner?”
“The man you came here with before?”
“Oh. Larkin.” An eye roll. “He’s not my partner.”
Zaria exchanged a glance with Jules, thrusting her chin at the door to indicate he should leave while he had the chance.
Jules gave a stubborn shake of his head, and Zaria watched in horror as he withdrew a serrated knife from somewhere behind the counter.
Its edges were rusted, clearly dull, but he pointed it at Kane without wavering. “Get out of my shop. Now.”
Kane blinked in amusement. “That is, without a doubt, the most ancient knife I have ever seen. Do you intend to make me sit for a quarter of an hour while you saw through my skin?”
“I’m not against the idea.”
“I assure you, I’ve no interest in your shop or anything in it.
” Kane raised one hand, reaching inside his coat with the other.
Before Zaria could process the movement, he had withdrawn a revolver—similar to the one she’d handed him the other night—letting it dangle from a finger as he thrust it toward her. “Here.”
She narrowed her eyes, studying him in distrust. Had he commissioned such a weapon on his own, or did Saville value him more greatly than she’d realized? “Why would I want your gun?”
“I’m working with the assumption you’d prefer me unarmed,” Kane drawled. “If you’re saying that’s not the case—”
Zaria snatched the gun from his loose grip. When she pointed it at him, he didn’t look remotely surprised. The weapon was still warm from being against his chest. “Whatever you came to say, say it quickly.”
“Perhaps we could talk somewhere more private?”
“Absolutely not,” Jules said before Zaria could answer.
She didn’t miss the way he shifted his body in front of the cabinet where George kept the pawnshop’s money, but somehow she didn’t think Kane was lying about his disinterest in the shop.
He didn’t look as though he had need for money—at least not compared to the customers Zaria was accustomed to seeing.
That, combined with the dark market weapon, made her curious about what he had to say.
“We can talk,” she decided. “Briefly. But I keep the gun.”
Kane tilted his head, flashing the ghost of a grin. “Lead the way.”
Zaria sidestepped over to the door, never lowering the revolver. She heard Jules hiss her name, low and furious, and she directed an apologetic shrug his way. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll shoot if I have to.”
She said it mostly for Kane’s benefit, but he appeared unperturbed even as Jules added, “She will.”
“Right,” Kane said, now with an air of impatience. “You’re both terribly threatening. If I may?” He indicated the door.
Zaria ushered him through. Without a candle, the corridor was dark as pitch, but Kane didn’t miss a step. He was a great deal taller than she was, which irked her unnecessarily.
“Are you always this mistrustful?” His murmur stretched into a wavering echo.
“Only of people like you.”
A short laugh. “And what are people like me?”
Zaria gave him another light jab with the gun, glaring at what she imagined was the middle of his back. “Slippery. Practiced liars. Willing to sell their souls.”
Kane gave a hum low in his throat. “To whom am I meant to have sold my soul? The devil?”
Zaria didn’t put much stock in the devil. “People like you work for either the highest bidder or the man who threatens you most.”
“People like me do whatever it takes,” Kane said as they crossed the corridor and entered her workshop, rotating to face her. His eyes weren’t as dark as they’d looked from afar—they were more of a hazel. “And so do people like you, I suspect, or you wouldn’t be talking to me right now.”