Chapter Fifteen
Fifteen
A squeak escapes. “How are you—”
“Alive?” Denim asks. His namesake jacket is now awash with dark blood. “I don’t suppose your friend is with you, hm?”
“He’s not my friend.” I try keeping my voice casual. “And yeah, he’s around. You should go find him.”
“Why would I, when I have the thing that will lead him straight to me?”
“First off, I’m not a thing,” I say, wagging a finger. “Second—”
I take off running down the ominous alley.
He yells after me, his footsteps unwanted assurance he won’t let me off easy.
While this part of the market isn’t as crowded as the rest, there’s still enough bodies to weave between to give me a leg up on Denim.
He shouts behind me, shoving people out of the way.
I might have the upper hand for the moment, but I can’t evade him forever.
Especially when I haven’t completed the one thing Luke needed me to do.
A hell being comes out of a dark maroon tent and I slip inside.
Sultry music encompasses me, the lighting dim and directed toward a stage.
Women dance on poles wearing outfits that leave little to the imagination.
Others walk around the room pouring glowing liquids into crystal goblets.
It sloshes over the rims as the holders guffaw or lean toward the women to whisper in their ears.
A glance over my shoulder shows Denim emerging through the entrance.
I duck lower, hoping his gaze will miss me.
From the sudden uproar, I can tell he isn’t being half as tactful as I am about who he’s shoving aside.
Groans and complaints rise around me. When I look again, Denim is caught behind a wall of two men, or…
something like that. They’re even taller than he is, and mangy tails whip back and forth through the air.
“Ah!” I yelp, slamming into a body. Hands right me before I can fall and bright green eyes with a slit through the center cut through the darkness.
“You alright, hon?” one of the dancers asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. I’ve heard they’re around tonight.”
“Yeah, sorry, I’m just, uh, kind of in a hurry, and—” I look back toward where Denim is pushing past the two bouncers.
“Is that hound bothering you?”
“You could say that.”
“I can sneak you out the back.” She grabs my hand. Her skin is cool and has a strange texture I can’t pin. She pulls me through the crowd, only stopping to beckon two other dancers over.
“See that hound back there in the jean jacket?” She smirks. “Go give him a little love.”
Wicked grins transform their lips and they snake toward him.
When we finally reach the flap at the back of the impossibly large tent, I glance back to see the women draped over Denim, who sits on a velvet chaise, expression half murderous and half tempted.
As one of the women leans down to kiss him, the latter wins as he pulls her onto his lap.
“Like a bitch in heat.” The woman still gripping my hand cackles. “I’m Shonda, by the way.”
“I’m Brie,” I say as we step out of the tent and into an alley that’s even quieter than the last. “Thanks, you saved my ass.”
“Don’t mention it. Hating the hounds is what ties us all together. Fuck those devil mutt boys.”
“Hounds?”
“Hell hounds,” Shonda explains. “One part minor demon, one part bloodhound, which is where they get their tracking skills, hence the surplus of body hair.”
“I just assumed they were Greek or Italian.”
Shonda’s laugh hacks the air. “They might also be part mortal. But trust that they’re pure-blooded horn suckers. I’ll leave it up to your imagination which horn they’re slurping on.” She winks at me. “You new here? Struck a deal with someone you shouldn’t?”
“Something like that.”
She nods in understanding as a flash of lightning makes her eyes glow. It illuminates the faint lines across her skin. No, not skin—scales. Snake-like.
“Well, I hate to break it to you, but if that one in there has got your scent, you’re shit out of luck. He’ll stop at nothing to bring you back to the big guy.”
“Is it too much to hope I’ll keep conveniently running into beautiful, kind women like yourself to save me?” I joke weakly. Denim having my scent makes disgust curl through my stomach.
Her painted red lips stretch in a Cheshire cat grin. She tosses her hip-length braids over her shoulder, looking back at me as she grabs the flap of the tent we just fled through.
“You have a sly tongue for a mortal.” My expression must falter.
She laughs. “Were you trying to keep that a secret? You smell like one, plus your question confirmed my suspicions. Anyway, the devil will appreciate your mouth. I’ve heard he’s quite the charmer.
I’ll meet him in a few days at the Strangers’ Soiree.
He’s asked our troupe to put on a show. Maybe I’ll see you there. Hopefully alive.”
With another wink, she steps through the flap.
“Wait!” I say. She pops her head back out, raising a brow. “Where can I find Hazaar?”
· · ·
When I step into the green-and-gold tent Shonda directed me to, bells jingle overhead.
Unlike the deceiving exterior of the club tent I left Denim in, this one is quaint inside.
Shelves to my left and right are lined with small glass bottles with colorful liquids and cork stoppers.
In the back are five enormous pots suspended from cables looped into the ceiling to hang over small fires.
Cauldrons, if I’m being honest with myself.
A man stands on a step stool, bent over the center cauldron and stirring its contents. He hums a cheerful tune I don’t recognize. After a few moments of him not turning around, I clear my throat.
“I’m only blind, not deaf, too. I heard the bells when you arrived,” he says in a raspy voice.
“Sorry,” I say. “Are you Hazaar?”
He lays his giant wooden spoon across the top of the cauldron. Descending the small step stool, he wipes his hands on his white apron before turning to me.
“To some. What brings me the pleasure of your visit?”
His eyes are white, as if they rolled all the way to the back of his head and got stuck there like adults love to warn sassy teens about.
Aside from his apron, he’s dressed simply in tan trousers, a T-shirt, and a newsboy cap on his bald head.
A sheen of sweat shines across his brown skin.
If it weren’t for his eyes, I’d assume he’s as human as me.
“I was told to come find you. I have some things I’d like to trade.”
I drop my duffel to the ground so I can shrug off Luke’s backpack and unzip it. Hazaar comes closer, sniffing the air. “You do indeed. Who sent you?”
“My fr—colleague. Luke D’Angelo.”
His brows pinch as if trying to place the name. “Interesting. He’s here with you?”
“Somewhere.” I thought he would have found me by now, given all my detours.
Like me, I assumed Luke had packed his bag full of clothes and essentials. Instead, I pull out mason jars and notebooks and tiny bottles no bigger than a nip. Hazaar holds out an expectant hand and I place the biggest jar full of a bubbly gelatin into it. He removes the top and takes a whiff.
“Mmm,” he hums approvingly. “Sourdough starter.”
“Huh?”
He takes another jar, opening it to dip his finger into the amber contents. Bringing it to his lips, he sucks on it with a pop. “Just as I’d hoped. Honey.”
I shuffle through the other things. More honey, a jar of what looks like coconut oil, a packet of sunflower seeds. “This is all normal stuff. I thought it would be, like, the tongues of baby kittens.”
“Normal to you, perhaps.”
I realize my mistake too late. “I didn’t mean it like—”
He laughs. The easiness of the sound is so similar to my father’s hearty bellow that my lungs are stunned. My throat tightens at the unexpectedness of the parallel, asphyxiating me. I can’t breathe—
“Be calm, mortal.” The rasp of Hazaar’s voice makes my father’s laugh fade until I’m able to suck down a breath.
“I’m not interested in anything but the wares you bring.
Which are incredibly rare to find in the underworld, by the way.
Your Luke knows my desires well. These are pure.
Things that would never grow here. I can make some delightful concoctions. How much do you want?”
He thought my reaction was because I’m scared. To prove him wrong, I clear my throat and aim high, stuffing down the urge to correct him that Luke isn’t my anything. “Five hundred.”
He rubs the few wiry hairs extending from his chin. “Three.”
“Four fifty,” I wager.
“Three fifty.” It’s more than Luke told me to get, but the burn to impress him floods me.
“Four twenty-five. Final offer.”
Hazaar laughs, but this time, it’s nothing like my father’s and trickles into a dry cough. “You’re quite the barterer. How about an even four hundred, and I’ll throw in something to sweeten the deal.”
Deal. The hair on the back of my neck rises, but this is the one person I was given the OK to make a deal with, so I ignore the discomfort. “What kind of something?”
“You’re wise to be suspicious. Had I been more jaded, like yourself, maybe I wouldn’t have made a deal that led to me losing these.” He gestures to his unseeing eyes but smiles. “Good thing I don’t need them for this line of work.”
I don’t know if I’m supposed to laugh or not, so I smile back before remembering he can’t see it. “You were going to tell me about what else you’re including.”
“All business, you are! I respect it.” He piles the contents of Luke’s backpack into his arms and deposits them onto one of the already-crowded shelves to my right.
One jar nearly rolls off and I open my mouth to belatedly warn him.
He catches it despite the words never making it past my lips and sets it down safely.
“Close call. Good thing my ears are as strong as my nose.”
He pulls two empty glass vials from the shelf and ambles to the cauldrons.
Using a serum dropper—something I was well acquainted with when my now nonexistent skincare routine was at its peak—he sucks up some of the dark green liquid and releases it into the vial, corking the top.
He does the same with an opaque yellow liquid a few cauldrons down.
“This”—he holds up the green vial—“is a poison so powerful, it will slay even the strongest of demons, sending them into a fitful rest bound to last a hundred years and six days, impenetrable by neither Reckoning nor summoning. All it takes is a sip or coating a blade that punctures flesh. A scratch, even. I call it Fatality.”
I take it from him. He raises the yellow vial. “This is Vitality. As with all things, balance is needed. While Fatality brings death to your door, Vitality brings life. This single dose can save you from certain death. It’s invaluable to a fragile mortal like yourself.”
“I appreciate it,” I say carefully, as thanking a demon—if that’s what Hazaar is—seems like something Luke would warn me against. “And hope I won’t need to use either.”
“Hope,” he muses. “Such an overworld thing to do.”
He reaches into the pocket of his apron and scoops out a handful of tiny jars no bigger than the tip of my thumb with corks just as small. A blue glow emanates from inside. “I’d advise you to count them, but I’m not sure it’s in your best interest to take the time. Dawn approaches.”
“Dawn?” Surely, I haven’t been at the Night Market that long? But Luke did say time worked differently here. I have to find him and get out before it’s too late.
Hazaar dumps handfuls of tiny jars into Luke’s backpack. There’s a separate pocket near the top with slots for pens. I tuck in the vials, wishing I had more to protect them.
“Some of these are my best souls, so tell your Luke he better mind his next trades,” Hazaar advises. “Good workers, they are.”
“The souls inside the jars are…actual souls?”
Luke did call them soul jars, but it’s unbelievable that the same beings on the train get condensed into such tiny, obscure forms.
“Oh, sure.” Hazaar continues digging in his apron for more jars.
“They’re our main currency. You can either keep them in the jars to trade or release them to do your bidding.
But make sure the task at hand is ready.
If you release them with nothing for them to do, they’ll dissipate and be free to finally rest. That’s good money you’d be wasting. Really screws up the economy, too.”
Regardless of whatever horrible things the souls once did to get damned here, it sours my stomach to think of them being used for all eternity. Before I can do something stupid, like smash a handful of jars on the cobblestones, I zip the backpack closed.
“Pleasure doing business,” I say, hoisting up the significantly lighter backpack.
Hazaar smiles, but his unseeing eyes make it chilling. “The pleasure is all mine.”
I’m one foot out of the tent when my nose collides with its second chest of the night.
“You’re here.” Luke sounds impressed to see me, which is both gratifying and insulting.
“I was starting to think you ditched me,” I lie to cover the very real fear that’s been worming at the back of my mind—that the ghosts got him.
“I had to take care of the spirits and then I ran into some…other trouble,” he says.
“That trouble is back,” Hazaar interrupts, holding up a finger to signal silence. Outside the tent, footsteps thunder past, accompanied by the unmistakable gruff growl of Denim’s voice.
“He went this way!”
Luke and I only relax once the footsteps outside fade, replaced by the faraway whispers of music, the crackling fires beneath the cauldrons, and the bubbling liquids within.
“They’re gone,” Hazaar says, turning his back to us to stir the green liquid. Fatality. “I remember you.”
Beside me, Luke bristles. “Oh?”
“Your voice,” Hazaar says, continuing his stirring methods.
“Your scent.” He brings the spoon so close to his mouth that I suck in a breath, sure it’s going to touch his lips.
Instead, he inhales deeply, smiling at whatever the aroma is.
With so many fragrances battling for dominance inside the small space, it’s hard to tell what might be what. “Your air.”
“Then you know I’m a friend,” Luke says. “Dawn approaches and we need to leave.”
“You do,” Hazaar agrees. “The hourglass is about to flip.”