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“I don’t want to hurt you, Samuel,” the woman offered, turning the blade over in her hand. “I’m a friend. An ally. But I need to know something.”

Samuel shook his head. “I’m not ignorant. I know what you can do with my blood.”

“I can tell you who your father was,” the woman replied. “And everything you can gain from claiming his name.”

“It won’t matter,” Samuel said. “I know enough about my father to know that I don’t care about the asshole who sired me.” He had seen enough in his mother’s eyes, in the fear that she had carried through her whole life. “And even if I did, it wouldn’t matter. I’m no Blood Worker.”

It was the only reason she would be here. That his family would be looking for him in the first place. It was a common enough fantasy that almost every child of the slums dreamed of it. That out there, somewhere, a Blood Worker family had lost their heirs, that they would come to the slums for the bastard child they had cast aside. That there was magic in their blood and nobility in their future.

Anything would be better than this life, this hopelessness. But Samuel never had that dream, because it didn’t take him long to realize that he was one of those bastards. Though his mother had never given him a name, he had figured out the truth, that a nobleman had taken a fancy to his mother, had raped her and left her with a child in her belly and no way to care for it.

And worst of all, he wasn’t even a Blood Worker. He couldn’t master the simple tests that the Academy gave all their applicants, the magic somehow slipping through his fingers like water.

Instead, he was something far worse.

The woman looked concerned at his announcement, but not deterred. “I’m sure you only need a proper teacher,” she said. “Your bloodline is strong.”

Samuel smiled sadly. “I thought you needed to test that to be sure.”

She cast him a grin that was all teeth. “You’re right. Will you give me a little blood?”

Samuel considered it. Despite the anger he carried—or maybe because of it—he wanted to know who the man was. Who had destroyed his mother’s life, who left her without a job or references or opportunity. Who had left her with a child she had spent her life protecting from the Blood Workers, at great cost to herself.

He had already failed her. Why not break the last promise he had left if it meant answers? If it meant revenge?

Never let them get your blood, she had said.

But he had nothing left to lose. If anything, this was an opportunity. He could come crashing back into his father’s life, demanding retribution, money, answers. Find out if he even remembered his mother’s name.

Perhaps even find out what he was.

It was certainly better than starving, and even if this woman was playing him, even with a drop of his blood, he could still force her back. Make her forget that she had ever seen his face. Make her take her own knife to her throat and slit it to the bone.

Probably.

“All right,” he said. “But first I want your name.”

She smiled—just a quirk of the lips, really—but she held out her free hand, dropping into a perfect curtsy. “Lady Shan LeClaire, at your service.” She cast her gaze low, the perfect image of sweet and demure, marred only by her strange clothes.

Not knowing what else to do, he took her hand and bowed low, his forehead level with her outstretched fingers. In the game of courtly manners, he only knew the barest basics, but even he knew that someone like him ought to bow before someone like her.

And, strange gifts or not, it would be in his favor to not anger the Blood Worker.

“It’s a pleasure, Lady LeClaire,” Samuel said as he straightened. “I am Samuel Hutchinson.”

“Well, Samuel…” she flashed her blade again, the small silver dagger dancing in her fingers. “I won’t need much.”

Samuel steeled himself and stepped forward.

Meeting him halfway, she took his hand in hers. It was soft and small, but there were callouses on her fingertips. A lady’s hand, but the type who was used to work, to handling daggers and claws and heaven knows what else. She had held him steadily, drawing her blade against the pad of his thumb, and the blood welled, bright and scarlet. Before either of them could think about what they were doing and the shocking intimacy of it, she raised his thumb to her lips and sucked it into her mouth.

The warmth shocked him, as well as the sudden swipe of her tongue against the cut, and he ripped his hand away before he could stop himself.

He watched her face, the shock and the sudden openness in her eyes, and she grabbed him again—hard. Pulling him closer, she pressed her nail below the wound, forcing another drop of blood out. Then her mouth was on him again, her teeth pressing against his flesh as she worked the wound.

Something flashed through him—an emotion he dared not recognize—and he wrenched himself away from her. “Get away from me!” he snapped, his power slipping. It was dark and heavy on his tongue, fueled by confusion and anger, and he could feel it hanging heavy in the room around him as she scrambled away.

All dignity, all pretense, all grace was gone as she mindlessly scurried backwards, eyes empty as she pressed against the far wall, putting as much distance between herself and Samuel as possible in the small room. For a moment they just stood in silence, Samuel’s chest heaving and Shan staring blankly, then awareness started creeping back into her expression.