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I wasn’t always a bad bitch with a bad temper. Honestly. I used to like pretty things. Things that made proper girls squeal with excitement.

That didn’t last long. It all got stripped away from me, quickly. Truth be told, some of it was my doing.

One of my earliest memories was opening my eyes and staring up into the affable face of Father Cullard. I didn’t know who he was at the time since I was only a bundle of a babe at his doorstep. He looked like a god in my whelp eyes as he lifted the wool-sack bundle I lay in, crying my eyes out.

He cradled me, gently rocking me to sleep.

When I awoke, I found myself in a sparse, cold room with other wailing babies.

There had to be fifteen of us, all screaming like wild typhoons.

Locked away underground where no one would hear us and where we couldn’t disrupt the studies and chores aboveground.

It was funny the first place I lived was literally under the Floorboards. Humans endearingly called our city of Nuhav the “Floorboards” because of our proximity to our vampire overlords, who congregated above us in the ancient sister city called Olhav.

The first time I ever laid eyes on the glorious skyline of Olhav, reaching up like dragon’s teeth spread across the apex of the mountain range, was a memory worth keeping.

I found it odd the bloodsuckers opted to keep their human pets and fodder stashed away in the shadows of the mountains, when they were the shadowwalkers.

I eventually discovered there was a reason the Olhavian buildings were so tall and scrunched together: They shielded the vampires from the sun.

Alas, it would be many years before I first saw that skyline. For the first few years of my life, I never saw daylight. I suppose, as a baby, I was a shadowwalker myself. I just never knew it.

Every so often, one of Father Cullard’s vowagers would come to nurse us babies and keep us quiet. The least rambunctious of us were soon given rooms aboveground, once we proved we could keep our fussing to a minimum.

It was a cold existence, being locked away like that.

The vowagers were priestly women in drab beige gowns, headdresses that covered their mouths, and no other ornamentation.

They never spoke—as was their lot in life and their agreement to their faith—and never bared their skin unless it was to bare a breast to feed us in quiet.

I was a clever whelp, staying mum when the vowagers would come. That was how I became one of the first of my group to get the royal treatment of an upstairs chamber. Shared with five other children, of course, it was much better than the darkness of the basement.

Seeing the sun for the first time was a transformative moment.

It shone through the window in slats, bathing me in warmth I’d never known.

In this room, Father Cullard would occasionally make an appearance.

His smile would fill my vision and I’d giggle, pawing at him because I wanted to see more of him.

Cullard was an old man when I was an infant. Though he wasn’t a vampire, he never seemed to age. In the eyes of a child, no one ever seemed to age when they were already old to begin with.

He had a hairless pate with a ring of gray hair at the temples. I used to snicker at the way the sunlight reflected off his shiny bald head when he’d bend over my cradle and smile down at me.

He would say some words to the mute vowagers I didn’t understand, they would nod at each other, and then I wouldn’t see him again for another week. At that point in my young life, it felt like eons.

Once I could walk and speak Nuhavian like other children, I finally got to talk to Father Cullard for the first time. That was when I learned he was a “Father,” though not in the traditional sense.

“Sephania, come here,” he told me one day.

I was perhaps five summers old, with big mischievous eyes he always chastised me for, but in a genial way. He would say, “Those eyes will get you in trouble one day, staring like you do, young lady,” and, “Close those peepers before sin gets in.”

That was one of his favorites. He said it to the other children too, when we accidentally saw things we weren’t supposed to.

When Cullard called me, I shuffled to the old man’s room, which housed little more than a four-post bed, a small writing table, and a chamber pot. Like the vowagers, Cullard lived a life without the need for material things.

He sat at his writing table, patting the edge of the bed. I plopped down with my legs dangling.

He leaned forward to speak to me at eye-level. “Do you know where you are and where you’ve been, Sephania?”

I blinked, confused. “Home?”

He chuckled, sitting back. “That is a good way to look at it. Yes. Home. Do you know what this home is , child?”

I shook my head fervently.

“It is the House of the Broken. I am Father Cullard, the lucky soul ordained with operating the House. You, like the other children, are my ward.”

“Broken?” I chirped, frowning. “That sounds bad.”

“Not bad, Sephania. Just . . . unfortunate. This is what’s called an almshouse. An orphanage. You are an orphan. Do you understand?”

I nodded as if I did, though of course I didn’t. All I’d ever known was Cullard’s shiny head, the vowagers’ stern looks, and other wailing babies. Only recently had I come into personhood and discovered others my age. I had no idea there was a purpose to this place.

“You do not have parents, Sephania. You are a child of the Truehearts. We will raise you well and dignified. In order to live here, you must work. Everyone must pay their keep. The House can only survive if we all do our part.”

Tilting my head, I gave Father Cullard an inquisitive look. “. . . Work, Father?”

He nodded gravely, only taking a moment before his smile returned bright as ever. “In order to live a dignified life, you must occasionally do undignified things.”

I didn’t know what “dignified” or “undignified” meant. It sounded like they were opposites, which didn’t make sense to me.

He noticed my confusion and patted my knee. “You will learn soon enough, child.”

I stood on the street corner with my wooden bowl cupped in my hands, looking as bedraggled and sorry as possible.

With my lips quivering with practiced ease, I called out to the passing couple, my arms outstretched, holding the bowl up like an artifact. “Spare a coin or two for the House of the Broken? It’s for a cause most noble.”

The man unlocked his arm from his wife and stopped. I smiled, not noticing his scowl.

I had a part to play.

“House of the Broken?” he sneered.

I nodded emphatically. “Truehearts one and all, sir.”

His head reeled and he spit on my face. “What have you zealots ever done for the working man, eh, little whelp?” He scoffed at my shock, the glob of spittle trickling down my chin.

“House of the Broken ,” he murmured. “I’ll break you if y’ask me for a damned thing next time I walk down this corner, you got it? ”

The man stormed off, tugging his wife with him. The woman calmly chastised him before leaving. “She’s just a child, Gregan. She’s only doing what she’s told.”

“A fanatic in the making. You have to teach them early or they’ll never unlearn that horseshit they’re fed.”

Their words dwindled away and I took a step back from the street corner, wiping the mucus from my face.

A high-pitched laugh erupted behind me and I spun with a glare.

The boy reclining with his back against a wall, propped with one leg thrown over his knee, kicked his foot and smirked as he bounced up. “Need to work on your pity-face, Seph.”

“It was the pity-face that got me spit on, Bay, you dolt.”

He shrugged and snatched the bowl from me. “Watch a master work then.”

Though the same age as me, kept in the same basement when we were diaper-wearers, Baylen Sallow had a swagger to him that rubbed people the right way. Most of the time.

For being six years old, he was quite good at this begging business.

Of course, say the word “begging” in the vicinity of Father Cullard and you’d earn a quick smack against the backside.

But that’s what it was. I might have been young but I knew enough to understand what he meant by “undignified work” now.

Bay schmoozed the next passing group and got two copper coins from one when he said something funny I missed. I was still too busy fuming, trying to pray away the anger that filled me from that man spitting on me.

It was a struggle to keep down my young wrath. Always was. Made me think there was something wrong with me.

Baylen came back squeezing and rubbing the two coins between his fingers. “See? Easy as sin. It’s all about picking the right mark.”

“The right . . . mark?”

“The target.”

My face screwed up. “Everyone should be welcoming to the plight of the Truehearts, Baylen. That’s what Father Cullard says.”

“Sure, but should be and will be are two different things. Look where we are.” He spread his arms at the dingy street.

Human and animal shit was tucked against the road.

Other beggars sat and slept in shadows with their bottles.

The buildings were ramshackle, dilapidated.

“We’re in the poorest district in Nuhav.

We’re trying to pick off working people who already have so little. ”

He was right. “What are we supposed to do? Father Cullard wants us staying close to the House because we’re young.”

His little nose flared. “It’s bullshit.”

I gasped. “Don’t say that, Baylen!”

Laughing, Baylen took my arm and pulled me away from the street. “Sorry, Seph. You’re still innocent. I like you like that.”

And I liked how he grabbed my arm, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. Besides, he was six—what worldly experience did he have that I lacked?

Maybe he was right and I needed to get wiser to all this. Maybe I could learn something from him.

“Come on,” he said. “I’m starving. Mother Eola will have second meal ready soon.”

I glanced up at the sun, which sat at its peak in the sky. We’d been here nearly three hours and it was time to eat.

I hurried with him and we padded down the road, avoiding the shit piles and merchants with their creaky barrows. The wind blew in my hair, Baylen shared a look with me, and we both smiled.

There was something freeing about running aimlessly in the wind, like we were running from our troubles, even though we were headed right for the House where they all began.

“We’re gonna be late,” Bay said, his smile disappearing. He slowed down as we reached the mouth of an alleyway, glancing into the darkness. “Follow me. There’s a shortcut.”

“. . . Baylen,” I whined hesitantly.

He scoffed. “Don’t be such a little girl, Seph. You scared of a little darkness? You know how Mother Eola is if we’re even a minute late for second meal!”

He was right, again. If we didn’t show up on time, we wouldn’t eat. The rest of the day on the corner would be torturous.

So I followed Baylen into the alley.

There was a reason Father Cullard had told us to never take shortcuts—in life, on the roads.

We were ten feet from the exit when an arm lashed out of nowhere from behind a trash barrel and clotheslined Baylen. He flipped to the ground and the bowl of measly copper coins went pinging across the cobbles.

I squealed, gaping in horror.

Three older boys stepped out from the shadows, chuckling. Baylen groaned, writhing on the ground, grabbing at his throat and taking big gasping breaths of air. The boys stood over him in a circle.

“Bay!” I wailed.

The boys turned to the sound of my voice. There was crudeness in their eyes—they looked to be thirteen, fourteen years old, and scary.

I backed up a step.

“Well, what do we have here?” said the head boy, two lengths taller than me. “Cute little zealot with her brown rags. Wonder what’s under—”

Baylen flew at the boy from behind, launching from his hands and knees with a high-pitched yell. “Don’t touch her!”

He tried to tackle the taller boy.

Given their size difference, the older boy hardly moved. He turned and flung Baylen off.

The three bullies started wailing on him, kicking him and kicking up dirt.

I screamed. My hands balled into fists. I wanted to fight them but couldn’t.

I wasn’t strong enough. “Please stop!” I cried out, tears streaming down my face.

I quickly crawled across the alley, picking up the copper coins, holding them out like an offering.

“Take our money, just please stop hurting him!”

They didn’t. The boys didn’t even hear me. The thuds of their kicks rang out, making me jolt with every strike that forced air out of Baylen’s little lungs.

“R-Run, Seph!” he croaked in a garbled voice.

So I did.

Weak, frail, scared beyond measure. I fled the alleyway with my tears drying from the rushing wind.

I told myself I would get stronger and never let that happen again.

I was fooling myself, because I still had a long way to go before I ever got what I wanted.

My feet didn’t take me far—only far enough to hide, to muffle the sounds of their brutality. One of the kids yelled, “Come on, let’s get out of here. Pick up those coins and scatter before a patrol comes.”

“Patrol?” another boy scoffed. “The Bronze never come ‘round here. You know that well as I do, Jeffrith.”

The trio leisurely walked off, in no hurry.

Jeffrith , I thought. I’ll remember that name.

I inched over from behind a barrel a few minutes later. Baylen’s broken form on the ground gripped my heart with fear. He looked unmoving. Dead.

“B-Baylen?” I squeaked as I drew closer.

He groaned and my breath left my body in a great heave. I put my wrists together in the form of shackles and looked up to the sky. “Thank the True.”

My friend spit up blood and slowly sat up.

I helped him, hand to his arm. His face was bruised. One eye was closed shut. For some reason, when I found a bloody tooth lying on the ground next to him, I handed it to him as if he’d want it.

“I’m so glad you’re all right,” I breathed.

He winced and slapped my hand away, eyes lighting up with young rage. “I’m not all right, dammit.”

I bowed my head in shame.

“Last time I let s-something like that happen,” he added.

My brow furrowed. I thought he was going to say it was the last time we took a shortcut to get home. “What do you mean?”

He snarled at me, standing on wobbly legs without my assistance. “Don’t you see, Seph?”

I shook my head.

“They picked the right mark.”