Wicked Gods (Wicked Gods #1)

Chapter 1

Words are weapons, silence is armor.

Eight years later

There are two things for certain on the streets of Helgate. First and foremost, for every kind stranger there are three who would see you broken.

Trust no one—not the little girl selling flowers in the market district, nor the grown man with a heavy coin purse and charming smile full of promises.

The little girl will slip her quick fingers inside your pocket to rob you blind as you walk away with a fistful of wild daisies.

She gives me a wink as I pass, and I give her a wide berth, though I have nothing worth stealing, and it was me who taught her half her tricks.

Trust no one.

The man is more dangerous. He will lure you to a dank inn room after stuffing you with assurances of money, food, shelter, the world.

No sooner you’ll find yourself a slave to opium, working against your will in one of his brothels in the Underworld of East Slag.

He tells me to smile as I pass him, in turn I offer a crude gesture of my finger and a baring of teeth.

Though he thinks I’m a boy, it doesn’t stop his advances.

Not really. I look too young, too vulnerable.

Something he could take, mold, force to do his bidding.

Still, my odds are better this way so I dress the part: dirt stained trousers and a long sleeved button down despite the summer heat simmering the air.

When my breasts became too noticeable, I had to start wrapping them tight.

Already sweat gathers between them, the cloth itchy and uncomfortable.

A ratty flat cap sits low over my ears with my wild curls knotted tight and tucked inside.

Which brings me to my second certainty—the more dangerous of the two—that if the people of the city ever find out what I really am, I'm as good as dead.

These are reminders, big fears disguised as little ones, tucked away in the pocket of my mind as I push through the morning rush.

There are a mix of people roaming the market stalls.

I dip my chin and make my way among them, headed for Brexley Square where Cinder Sallow and his fellows have their wagon set up, hiring boys and men for odd jobs.

Not that there's many left to be had. Jobless boys as young as twelve get whisked up by the crusaders, shipped off to the front where the holy war ravages the border between Triel and Eclen.

It makes every opening a fight for survival, and lingering without purpose the most dangerous of games.

It's a gamble, for certain, parading around male when I could be swept up any minute. But weighed against being a woman, alone, on the streets of Helgate…I'd take the war trenches any day.

When the sun peeks up over the buildings that block the distant sea coast, I curse to myself. I’m late. I should have been here long before dawn.

As though summoned by the thoughts of my panic, three figures cloaked in white move through the crowd, who part for them like the waters of the Dread Sea.

Members of Centurism—the new faith— the Sisters of Silence.

Shimmering veils shroud their hair, and their gowns flow well past their ankles to brush the dirty streets.

Silver amulets hang from their neck; three circles, interlocked to represent the triple god and triple goddess who they worship so devoutly.

Ireus: warrior, king, sage. God of gods.

The blade that defends, the hand that governs, the mind that discerns.

Ireus is the protector, the sovereign, the advisor, his power a threefold cord of authority.

And at his side, his queen, the triple goddess, Trine: bloom, thrive, wither.

Three faces, one essence. The budding promise of Bloom, the vital strength of Thrive, the quiet wisdom of Wither—all are Trine, the breath of existence.

A life cycle mortals use to make sense of their world.

In the hands of the leader rests thick, faded pages bound tight with a pale cover and ink black title —the Book of Hush. I shiver at the sight of it, recalling every recitation, every verse. Each one’s been burned and beaten into me.

Girls will be silent. The triple god and goddess demand it.

Men will be strong. Go to war. Spread the word of Ireus and Trine.

People bow them past, looks of sheer reverence lighting their eyes, but I dip as quickly as I can into one of the many shaded alcoves that rivet Merchant Street, the smell of piss and rotting crates an unholy perfume in the air.

I’m not sure they would recognize me after years out of their talon-like clutches, but it’s a chance I’m not willing to take.

They could try to drag me back to Blossom House Orphanage, tooth and nail. Iron and rose.

Trust no one. Not even your own luck—especially not that.

They disappear in the crowd, but I wait a moment longer before slipping back into the street. Where a Sister of Silence walks, a Son of Serenity is never far behind, and I've yet to decide which is worse.

Late. I’m so late.

Maybe there’s still room on the cart. Maybe Cinder will take pity on me like he’s done in the past; squeeze me in between two smelly brutes and ship us off to mine, or harvest, or build.

I’d even take a spot as digger again if he wanted, though I’m no more a fan of dumping pox riddled bodies in mass graves than the next person, but it’s the job that pays the best. I need the money badly if I want to eat tonight or have a roof over my head that isn’t carved out of the sewers in East Slag.

One would think that after four years on the streets I would've figured something else out, but Helgate is a bloody sinkhole.

The harder you struggle to escape it, the more fiercely it sucks you down.

“Cinder!”

He’s standing along a street that opens to the sprawling plains beyond Helgate, to the gilded valleys and purplish mountains which should feel like home to someone like me but only succeed in making me homesick.

My island, Aurorae, is far away, a blurred memory that hasn’t been clear in years.

Not since I was taken from its shore, fourteen and terrified, only to wash up in Helgate.

He turns and looks at me, instant exasperation lightening his copper-brown gaze.

“Vale.”

He gives me a curt nod before turning away to an older man with a prominent mustache and droopy eyes that water incessantly.

Beck Aldern, Cinder’s uncle and business partner.

They briefly discuss the ledger in his hands.

A glimpse past the gates, I see that the wagon has already started down the pocketed road that leads to Moon Forest and the old Silverpine Mines.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” My voice is riddled with desperation, too high pitched for my facade. I clear it, embarrassed I let it slip. “Is there room if I catch up with them?” I’m faster than the old mules that pull the thing. I’d make it.

Cinder claps Beck on the shoulder, who then takes the ledger from him and lumbers off to the building on the corner. A green and gold sign over top of it reads: Cinder and Beck: Men at Work.

He shakes his head and a lock of his curly blonde hair falls over his eyes. Dust from the street lingers on his practical leather boots and one of his shoulder straps has slid down to hang lazily near his elbow, but he doesn’t fuss over it. Too many other things to worry about, I suppose.

“No, kid. We’re all filled up,” he says, and then, catching the look on my face, adds a quick, dull, “Sorry.”

“What about a job in the city? I could sweep chimneys. Press or deliver papers?”

He shakes his head again, not looking at me, and starts for his building. I scramble after him, unusually clumsy, but maybe I’m just lightheaded. I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning. The last of my money went towards a better cause. The reason I’m so late.

“Lord Solomon is back from the countryside. It’s not wise for me to be running inner city jobs.

Not if I wanna keep my head. His boys are down by the timbers on sixth street if you want to try them; warn you though, they’re a rougher sort.

” He pauses to study me wearily. “Harlow Black is in charge of ‘em. Doing his brother’s dirty work. Playing ring leader for ole Solomon.”

Harlow Black. Strange to think he’s dabbling in legal business for once.

Just the sound of his name drives a flame of rage through me, so sharp I have to stop for a moment and take in a breath.

Such high emotion is dangerous; the deadly power within me threatens to surface.

“I don’t deal with nymph slavers. I’d rather starve. ”

A fleeting, piteous look corrupts Cinder’s face. Just for a moment he’s young, and handsome enough, but this rough life of clawing his way to any type of success has left him hardened with little desire to offer charity.

He appraises me and sighs again. “You’re a tough kid, Vale.

You remind me of me when I was young, so I’ll offer you some sound advice if you’ll take it.

” He leans in, conspiratory. The sun beats off his golden hair and I blink at him, waiting for life changing words of wisdom.

A small smirk creeps to the edge of his lips and his calloused fingers tug his shoulder strap into place. “If you want to work, show up on time.”

He claps me on the arm with enough force to rock me off kilter for a moment and then chuckles to himself before going inside.

Stomach aching, I head back to the market, cursing Cinder’s name the whole way with the dirtiest, most vile words I’ve heard along the port stretch in Harbor Valley where sailors dock.

From my pocket, I dig out what money I have left. Three copper eyrir, cool metal stamped with the Magistrate’s seal. I'm still staring sullenly at them when a young boy barrels into me.