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VEIL

T he pub is relatively busy when I walk in, considering it’s late afternoon—if a bare-bones room with no liquor license and the heavy scent of urine can even be called that. This place doesn’t even have a name; the locals just call it the pub for convenience’s sake.

The lights are dim as I sweep my gaze across the cramped space. There isn’t a single window in here, and after a few pints, it’s easy to forget what time it is. It’s always the middle of the night here—the witching hour, where anything can happen and nothing is off-limits.

I find my roommates near the makeshift bar. Zazel stands in front of Antoinette and Madeline, who are perched on a couple of stools. Zazel waves their hands around animatedly, most likely entertaining the other two with another one of their stories from Animus, the circus where they perform as a sword-swallower.

Antoinette’s mouth has fallen slightly open, her gaze fixed on Zazel, her shaved head dyed a similar hue to her sparkling blue eyes. Pursing her black-painted lips, Madeline seems much less interested, her attention anywhere but on our friend.

She’s even hungrier than I am, always looking for her next target, even in a place as desolate as this. She’s never been deterred by the fact that everyone in here is a grifter, just like us. She believes there’s always something to take from anyone she encounters.

Sidestepping a table that’s been knocked over, along with a drunk slumped on the floor beside it, I make my way toward my crew.

“You should have heard the moan she let out,” Zazel declares with a wolfish grin.

“Not again,” I say with an exaggerated sigh as I sit on the empty stool next to Madeline.

Antoinette shushes me, taking the cigarette tucked behind her ear and lighting it. “Zazel was just getting to the good part,” she mutters while smoke slips lazily out of her lips.

“Let me guess … they impressed a bored toff with their sword-swallowing skills and ended up with their hands up her skirt backstage.”

Zazel barks a laugh. “You’re no fun.”

“Am I wrong?” I drolly ask with a raise of my brow.

Zazel falls silent, struggling to hide their smirk, a few strands of their short strawberry-blond hair falling over their gray eyes. “It was beneath the stands,” they finally let out slowly, tongue pushing against their freckled cheek.

“Semantics,” I volley back.

We stare at each other for a beat, then burst into a laugh before Madeline interrupts us.

“You have that look in your eye.” She cocks her head to the side, her short black bob swishing over her shoulder as she studies me. She lifts a half-shaved eyebrow. “Had a nice stroll through the market?”

I don’t bother concealing my triumphant grin, swinging around on my seat to order a pint and a round of shots to celebrate.

“Two months’ rent at least.”

The four of us have been roommates since I arrived in Pravitia two months ago. Friendships forged from convenience more than anything. Our dismal apartment is located above a fish market a couple of streets away from the pub. The stench alone must have driven down the cost of rent.

Zazel whoops loudly behind me and grabs my shoulder before shaking it. “That’s why you’re the best.”

“Please,” I say with a chuckle, trying to sound humble. I turn back around to face Zazel before adding, “We all have our strengths.”

“We should go to the casino to celebrate,” Antoinette says with her large, beaming smile. “Try our luck at the tables,” she adds as she stubs her cigarette with a chipped, painted nail.

The two others agree cheerfully while I try to conceal the dread dripping down my throat, sour and bitter.

Since I survived an attempted sacrifice, I’ve learned quite a few things about the city I’m trapped in. First was the cold realization that I was living in the very neighborhood of the man who had tried to kill me. The Foley territory encompasses all of Pravitia’s harbor, including Pandaemonium—the casino—owned by my tormentor.

When I found out, I considered moving, considered gathering my things and slithering into a different neighborhood to hide.

But what was the point when I couldn’t even escape the city in the first place?

I wasn’t naive enough to believe that any other neighborhood, ruled by one of the other five families, would be any better.

I know the extent of their evil. I attended the public execution two weeks ago after all. Unlike the majority of the city, I haven’t been brainwashed to believe that the troupe of actors deserved to die.

The ruling families are vile, ruthless creatures. Their thirst for blood makes my stomach churn, and the image of severed heads and bludgeoned bodies has stuck to me like boiling tar to burned skin.

“I don’t — uh …” I stutter over whatever excuse I’ll conjure up today as to why I won’t accompany my friends to the casino. “I’m busy.”

Madeline shoots me a deadpan look, but doesn’t say anything while I purposely avoid Zazel’s inquiring gaze.

“Busy with?” Zazel presses, their thumbs hooked in the loops of their baggy jeans.

“Things,” I reply dumbly.

I’m hoping they’ll drop the subject, but I know better than to hold my breath. No one in this city, including my friends, seems as disturbed as I am by what goes on here. I seem to be cursed to see the perturbing reality as it is when everyone else doesn’t. At least back home, my father seemed to see things as clearly as me.

The perversity of Pravitia is intangible, a reality that thins out and disappears quickly in the resident’s mind. It’s then eagerly replaced with the gluttony of excess, found within the Vorovsky territory or the countless mind-numbing orgies in the Carnalis neighborhood. Whereas here, in the Foley neighborhood, mischief and chaos seem to rule the streets. It’s harder to fully capture the essence into a singular image or situation.

The one thing I do know is that, even in a city like this one, there are always outliers. Outsiders who seek to escape the shackles of polite society. When I linger on the thought, I find it ironic, like a crude mirror reflecting back the same dark urges as the six families ruling Pravitia. The very top and the very bottom, unwilling to conform or submit. However, the glaring difference between us and them is that we run the fatal risk of getting caught—for them , there’s no such thing as consequences.

“Veil, the hermit,” Antoinette mutters as she stands. “You’re so boring.”

A guilty twinge squeezes my stomach knowing I’ve refused most of their invitations since the Feast of Fools, avoiding all bars and clubs owned by the ruling families, especially in the Foley neighborhood. The money I scored burns my thigh through my pocket as I chew on Antoinette’s comment, and I’m suddenly sick of it all.

Sick of hiding. Sick of operating under the paralyzing fear that I will encounter Gemini Foley in the flesh—again.

I can’t live the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, living in fear, waiting for him to finish what he started.

“Fine,” I relent. “Let’s go to the casino.”