CHAPTER 12 #3
Hundreds of stalls stretch in all directions, their colorful awnings creating a patchwork ceiling below the natural rock. Holographic signs pulse beneath them, advertising everything from ancient artifacts to cutting-edge technology.
“Whoa,” I breathe, briefly overwhelmed by the sensory input.
“I know, right?” Evan grins, all teeth, already eyeing a nearby stall selling bioluminescent plants. “Where should we start?”
“Food,” declares Haden, pointing toward a row of stalls emitting delicious aromas. “I’m starving.”
We weave through the crowd toward the food section. The market is a perfect microcosm of Penn City itself, with humans and vampires mingling freely, their differences temporarily set aside in the pursuit of commerce and curiosity.
A venator in civilian clothing examines a display of rare medicinal herbs and alchemy tinctures, while a histrionic vampire chef demonstrates a certain cooking technique that seems to incorporate plasma extracts for enhanced flavor.
We stop at what seems more like an open flame-glazed theater than a food cart, selling skewers of hematic meat glazed with an ebullient sauce. The aromas drag in every passing customer like an undertow, the nocturnal in particular.
Marinated slabs are flipped over a blue-white fire, the glaze shimmering with a metallic, almost magical luster.
“Three, please,” says Evan, his voice already thick with anticipation.
We take a moment to watch the chef’s hands move with a rhythm that seems both practiced and celebratory.
This is not just food, but ritual: the chef skewers each chunk with a strange metal rod, submerges them in a vat of glowing orange sauce, clearly infused with blood, then sears them until the sugars and spices fuse into a lacquered crust. The finished orders are presented like gems on a tray, each skewer still steaming and dripping with fragrant glaze.
Evan hands one over to me and then Haden, and for a beat the three of us stand in silent accord, transfixed by the scent—smoky, sweet, with something sharp and unfamiliar lurking underneath. We bite down at the same moment.
The meat is tender enough to melt between my teeth, saturated with layers of flavor that hit the best notes of salty, fiery, and somehow electric.
I look to my left and right, searching for words, but Evan’s eyes are wide and delighted, and Haden has already started on his second skewer, mouth too full for speech.
“Holy shit,” Haden moans, when he finally pauses for air. “This is amazing.” He shakes his head, as if language can’t quite stretch enough to contain this kind of pleasure.
Evan tilts his head back, finishing his own portion with a reverence usually reserved for something sacramental. “This has got to be illicit,” he says, wiping sauce from his lip. “There’s no way this is legal.”
The vendor grins, teeth rimmed with gold, and shrugs in thespian innocence. “Family recipe. Passed down since before the war,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s sincere or just playing the part. Either way, we’re all hooked.
Behind us, the market swells with noise. Children of all ages excitedly dart between stalls, a musician is setting up a battered synth keyboard, and vendors are shouting out their wares in a dozen accents.
There’s a kinetic energy alive in the crowd, and for the first time in days, I’m not thinking about my wound or my enemies, only the heat of spiced meat in my mouth and the laughter of my friends echoing off the hollow walls.
I’m about to suggest getting seconds when my eye is caught by a neighboring stall with a table festooned with glossy, hand-sized pastries.
The woman behind the counter wears a dress stitched from patchwork silks, with each panel being a different color.
She’s arranging her display with care, fanning out the pastries so their golden crusts catch the light like treasure.
Drawn by curiosity and a little greed, I wander over, toothpick still between my teeth.
The aroma is nothing like the fire-glazed meat.
It’s floral and bright, with a citrus tang that cuts through the heavier scents of the market.
I lean in, my eyes tracking the neat rows of what looks like fruit pies, each one glazed to a mirror-finish and flecked with what looks like edible flowers and candied rinds.
I point to a row of golden-brown pastries. “What’s in these?”
“Sunfruit and honey,” she says with a smile. “Grown in the recovery zones of Mythcrest. Very rare.”
I buy one, taking a bite as I rejoin my friends.
The tangy flavor explodes on my tongue, and there’s an underlying warmth that spreads through my chest. It’s unlike anything I’ve tasted before.
“Good?” Evan asks, noting my expression.
“Incredible,” I admit, taking another bite.
We spend the next hour exploring the food section, sampling dishes from across the continent. Evan and Haden stick to stalls that cater to vampires, while I discover a vendor selling pastries made with a flour that’s supposedly from plants that grow only in Mythcrest.
Evan wipes his hands on a napkin. “Where to next?”
“The tech section?” Haden suggests. “It’s supposed to be among the biggest this year.”
We slowly make our way through the swarming aisles, stopping every time something grabs our attention.
Evan finds his glowing mushrooms, buying a set of five that pulse with soft blue light when he touches them.
Haden spends nearly thirty minutes haggling over a neural interface modification, eventually walking away with a smug grin and a small package tucked into his jacket.
“Your turn,” Evan says, turning to me. “What’s calling your name?”
I’m about to say nothing when a diminutive stall in the corner catches my eye. Unlike the flashy displays around it, this one is simple—just a table covered in a dark cloth, with various objects arranged in neat rows.
The vendor, an elderly woman with silver streaks in her hair and a faded floral headscarf, regards me with an unsettling intensity.
“That one,” I say, pointing.
Before they can respond, I’m already moving toward it, drawn by something I can’t quite explain.
Pendants, carved figurines, and polished stones are displayed in messy rows on the table.
When I drift closer, I notice subtle details that mark them as anything but ordinary.
The objects are antiques, not the mass-produced replicas sold at tourist shops, but genuine artifacts with the patina of age and use.
“Looking for something specific?” the woman asks, her voice lilting in that unmistakable Mythcrestean accent.
“Just browsing,” I reply, my fingers hovering over a tarnished silver locket.
“That thing is not for you,” she says, kindly moving my hand away. “This, however…” She reaches beneath the table and produces a small keepsake box, its surface carved with intricate symbols I recognize from old vampire texts.
“What is it?” I ask, suddenly wary. Is she trying to upsell me?
“A protection charm.” She opens the box to reveal a pendant. It’s a simple, dark stone set in twisted metal that seems to absorb rather than reflect the light. “For those caught between worlds.”
I bristle at her presumption, lifting my head ever so slightly. “What makes you think I need protection?”
Her eyes crinkle at the corners. “Everyone needs protection, child. Especially those marked by fate.”
“That’s quite a sales pitch, but I don’t believe in fate,” I say, even though my hand reaches for the pendant anyway. It’s heavier than it looks, and warm to the touch. The red spots on the dark green jasper remind me of blood.
“I am not pitching you anything, my dear.” She laughs, the sound like dry leaves rustling.
“The right objects find the right owners. And if not fate, then foresight.” Her crinkled hands fold around mine, helping me turn the pendant over until it catches the light just right, revealing subtle glimmers that make it seem almost alive.
“Heliotrope gemstone is formed where vampire blood seeps into the earth during celestial alignments. It’s very rare, you know? Very powerful.”
“How much?” I ask, curiosity overtaking me. It looks expensive.
She shakes her head. “No charge. As I said, it’s been waiting for you.”
I frown, immediately suspicious. “I can’t accept this for free.”
“Then consider it payment for services rendered,” she says, true to her cryptic ways. “Or services yet to come.”
Before I can question her further, her attention turns to another customer, effectively dismissing me.
I stare at the pendant in my palm, unsure whether to keep it or put it back. Something about it feels significant, though I couldn’t explain why.
“What did you get?” Haden asks as he and Evan join me. Suddenly reluctant to show it to them, my fingers close around the pendant.
“Just a trinket,” I say, slipping it into my pocket. “Nothing special.”
Evan gives me a skeptical look but doesn’t press the issue. “Alright, madam mysterious.”
We continue exploring every whimsical corner of the market.
Haden stocks on ingredients for some experimental cocktails he wants to try, while Evan accumulates an increasingly bizarre collection of items, from pills that claim to enhance all sorts of things—focus, senses, joy, and yes, stamina too—to a miniature drone that follows him around making sarcastic comments.
It’s basically a mini, artificial version of Haden and himself.
By the time we’ve circled back to the entrance, my tension from earlier has completely dissipated. I haven’t thought about Max, Cain, or the Ravens in hours. The weight of the pendant in my pocket is a small reminder, but even that doesn’t disturb the unexpected contentment I feel.
“Admit it,” Haden says as we re-enter the tunnel system. “You had fun.”
I stiffen, trying to maintain my stoic facade. “It was tolerable.”
“She had fun,” Evan stage-whispers to Haden. “I saw her smile at least three times.”
Haden nods solemnly, as if marking a historic event. “Three times, huh? A new record.”