Chapter 17 Zaria
ZARIA
THE MOMENT ZARIA ARRIVED HOME, SHE UNFOLDED THE PIECE of paper she’d taken from Cecile’s cold hands.
The other woman’s shoving her aside had saved her life, but it also meant Zaria was slow to retrieve her gun. The second she had it pointed at their two attackers, she’d crawled on her hands and knees toward Cecile’s prone form.
Cecile’s fingers had been scrabbling against the fabric of her dress, and for a moment, Zaria thought she was attempting to stop the flow of blood.
“It’s going to be okay,” Zaria had said, focus trained on the two men as she pressed her free hand to Cecile’s wound.
She knew the words were a lie. She’d told her father the same thing on the last night of his life, only to wake at dawn and find him unresponsive in his bed, skin already purpling as lividity set in.
She didn’t know why she’d said it again tonight.
It was a foolish human trait—the desire to insist that everything was fine no matter the circumstances.
Cecile had made a weak sound that Zaria was forced to lean in to interpret. It was then that she realized the woman wasn’t trying to stop the blood flow—she was trying to get something out of her breast pocket. The same pocket she’d been reaching into right as they were interrupted.
“Get back,” Zaria had snarled at the men, who’d stepped forward upon realizing Cecile was still alive. Her finger shook on the trigger. She didn’t know how long the impasse would last. Could last.
“Take this,” Cecile had gasped, all the color leaching from her lips as Zaria chanced a glimpse of her face.
“I don’t know what information your father had, but…
I’ve managed to ascertain what a source might look like.
” Her next breath was a rattling thing. “I don’t know if it’ll be of any use.
Despite what happened with Itzal and I… I want to… see you continue his work.”
Zaria hadn’t known what to say. Her attention was diverted, and anguish sat like a rock in her stomach.
Her mouth didn’t seem to be able to form words.
If they’d had more time, if she’d only been here alone, there were so many things she would have asked Cecile.
So much she wanted to know about her father, about their partnership, about alchemology in general.
Since Itzal’s death, Zaria hadn’t known another alchemologist. Hadn’t interacted with another person who understood the struggle, the elation, the fear that the craft inspired.
There were rival alchemologists involved with the dark market, of course, but it wasn’t as if she knew any of them personally.
You didn’t interact with your competition.
Even amateur alchemologists kept to themselves for fear of being exposed.
Cecile had drawn her last breath as Kane entered, and Zaria took advantage of the chaos to stuff the piece of parchment into her own pocket.
Looking at him had been the thing that finally caused her to snap. The way he’d stood in the entryway, hands steady on his gun, perfectly at ease. He was a nightmare walking, that boy. He was sin with a smile.
“You’re okay,” Kane had said, almost no inflection to his voice. A statement of fact—she couldn’t even tell whether he was pleased about it.
For a beat, Zaria hadn’t known how to respond. But then something had opened up within her, a crevasse at the bottom of which only rage dwelt, and it all came rushing upward. In Kane’s world, everything was a game. In Kane’s world, people were pawns, and it didn’t matter if they died.
Regret working with Kane Durante yet?
In that moment, everything had felt like his fault. He’d dragged her into his life of schemes and thievery, asking more of her than she could reasonably give. Enough that she’d sought out help, sought out Cecile, and in doing so condemned the woman to death.
She had no hard evidence it was Kane’s fault.
Logically, Zaria knew that. Perhaps it was her fault, just as he’d said.
Someone was targeting her—perhaps more than one person—and the people around her weren’t safe.
Getting involved with Kane had almost certainly been a mistake, but it had also made her more cognizant of all the reasons she needed to get out of London.
Even if by some miracle she managed to finish all her father’s outstanding commissions, was it already too late?
Had she invoked the kind of wrath that couldn’t be escaped so long as she stayed here?
The more she thought about it, though, the less certain she was that this was about the commissions at all. She’d dealt with impatient clients before, but she’d never been in true danger until her path crossed Kane’s.
The way he had stood there, seeming completely incognizant of the fact that her heart was cleaving into two…
how could she align herself with someone so unaffected by death?
Kane had killed a man outside, he’d said.
Like it didn’t even matter. Like it was normal to be hunted down by would-be assassins and murder them before they could do the same to you.
Zaria could barely remember what she’d said to him, what words she’d flung as she took out her revolver, desperate to finally—finally—find some weak spot. She wanted to see that impassive facade crumble. She wanted to know how it felt to knock Kane Durante off-balance.
As she sat at her workshop desk, the pit within her only deepened. Now that the rage had been released, she felt empty. She longed to sleep but knew it was futile. She wanted to stare into the fathomless dark until unconsciousness dragged her into a more bearable kind of emptiness.
But then she flipped over the parchment Cecile had given her and saw what was etched on the other side.
She’d been expecting words. A location, perhaps, or a description of some kind. Instead, though, she was greeted by a drawing.
It looked to have been taken out of a catalog of some sort. One edge of the parchment was jaggedly ripped, indicating it had been removed from a larger document.
Zaria recognized the item immediately. How could she not?
It was a drawing of the necklace from the Waterhouse exhibit. The necklace Kane was trying so desperately to steal.
The pendant had been hastily circled, and beneath the drawing was a single word in what Zaria now recognized as Cecile’s hand.
Carmot?
It took a moment for the word to register. Everything hurt, and not because of her fall to the crypt floor. Her heart hurt. Perhaps that was why it took a moment for the pieces to click together. Carmot was the—possibly mythical—substance from which primateria sources were supposed to be composed.
I don’t know what information your father had, Cecile had said, but I’ve managed to ascertain what a source might look like.
Then there was the note Zaria had found among her father’s records: Source: disguised?
For whatever reason, Cecile thought the necklace in the Waterhouse exhibit was a primateria source.
Zaria remembered it perfectly: an enormous crimson rock set in gold filigree surrounded by diamonds that managed to pale in comparison.
It was approximately the same size of the primateria she created herself, and she supposed it was possible a skilled alchemologist had used transmutation to make it appear more jewellike and less…
magical. Could that crimson rock be carmot?
If Cecile was right—if this was true—it would make sense why Ward, kingpin of the dark market, wanted the necklace so badly. Why he didn’t appear to care about the rest of the display. According to Cecile, Ward had long wanted a primateria source.
He wanted to wield magic in his own right, but he couldn’t master it.
Zaria wouldn’t let Kane see her growing reservations.
Let him think she was nothing but another person he had charmed and managed to con.
Suddenly, the most important thing was the maintenance of Kane’s trust—she couldn’t have him cutting her out of the deal.
Not when she now so desperately needed to be a part of it.
Not when she intended to take the necklace from him the moment he stole it.