Page 6

My heart hurt to see how swiftly and how far Baylen had fallen in just a few short years. Without any direction from the House of the Broken—even as deficient as their direction could be—he had quickly found his place with a rotten lot.

To be associating himself with these degenerate vagabonds was . . . awful. I couldn’t fathom him allying with the boy who had beaten him silly over a few copper coins, and whose friends nearly kicked him to death.

Never one to hold my tongue, I told Bay as much during my first night with the Diplomats.

“Like I said, Seph, things are different now,” he explained, bowing his head to avoid my judgmental gaze.

We sat hunched around a trash fire, alone, eating a meal of hardtack. Other members of the gang were nearby at different fire pits.

I frowned at the food in my hands. “A far cry from eating fruit on the rooftops over the bazaar, watching the sunset,” I pointed out, forcing down the stale food. I wanted him to remember the memory we shared from our youth, hoping I could bring him back to me.

Baylen simply scoffed, biting off a piece of his tack.

“A dream that was only a mask to cover up the lies of the House.” He spoke angrily, glancing over at me with dangerous, narrowed eyes.

The firelight flickered in his orbs. “Do you ever think you were truly free with the Truehearts? With Father Cullard and Mother Eola and the tyrannical vowagers?”

My head reeled. “Free?” I’d never known freedom in my life. How was I supposed to know what that felt like? “Well, no. I don’t believe anyone in Nuhav is free, so long as we live under the shadow of Olha—”

“I am,” he cut in, lifting his chin defiantly.

He scooted over, remaining crouched like a goblin with his knees bent.

Sitting would soil his pants with street mud.

“The Diplomats gave me a life when I was nothing more than a gutter-filth sewerboy.” A wicked smile curled his lips.

“Jeffrith beating me up years back counted as my hazing, so I didn’t have to go through that again. ”

Creases formed in my brow. “Hazing? What are you even talking about, Bay? This isn’t the boy I grew—”

“No, I’m not the boy you grew up with, Seph. I’m not a boy, to start.”

I wanted to shake him, to yell in his face that he was fucking thirteen ! His cracking voice was all the evidence anyone needed to know he was not a man.

“Dimmon and the Diplomats have taught me a way of life and self-sufficiency the House never did. Cullard and Eola would’ve kept me enslaved to the True my entire life.

” He nudged his chin. “Maybe if you were lucky enough, you could’ve become a mute vowager.

Breastfeeding the crying whelps, repeating the cycle. ”

His words dripped with sarcasm. There was a new, crazed light in his eyes that didn’t used to be there. He believed everything he was saying.

My shoulders sagged as I sighed and stared into the crackling flames. A boy walked by and tossed a mixture of peat and shit into the pit, sparking embers that floated into the sky, before he leered at me and wandered off.

“There’s nothing I can do to convince you to leave this place and these people?” I asked in a low voice.

His body stiffened, nostrils flaring. “Look at you on your high horse. I knew you were arrogant, always thinking you’re the smartest around, but I never thought you’d become so superior . Just like the other Neathers!” He swept a hand out at the wider city.

His outburst surprised me, making me fall silent as he continued to rampage.

“ These people are my brothers and sisters!” He yelled, earning a few eyes in our direction from other fire pits.

“Much more than any Brothers and Sisters from the House of the Broken ever were. You’re no better than me, you’re just the same.

A girl tossed on her ass when the heat got too hot at the House.

When you learned the truth of that diabolical place. ”

I blinked at him. I was almost certain Baylen didn’t even know the “truth” I’d learned regarding Father Cullard’s sinful ways.

He was simply spouting off. Clearly, Baylen Sallow had thought about his past and come to some conclusions that were filled with deep resentment and anger.

More likely, Dimmon Plank had filled his head with wicked words, molding Baylen to believe everyone outside the Diplomats was the enemy.

I couldn’t blame him for the resentment or anger. I felt it, too. Yet my anger wasn’t directed at everyone . . . yet. It was directed at specific people. I didn’t see every other Neather—slang for people living “Beneath” in Nuhav, as opposed to the vampire Buvers living “Above” in Olhav—as enemies.

“There are wicked people everywhere, my friend,” I said with another sigh. “I’m just worried you’ve let the worst of them get closest to you.”

I was growing tired. So far, Dimmon, Jeffrith, and the Diplomats had left me alone to get acclimated to my surroundings. It was a relief I knew wouldn’t last.

Baylen scoffed with derision. I knew then I was not going to change his mind. We would keep arguing in circles about this the longer we spoke about it.

“Maybe you should give the Diplomats a chance to prove you wrong before you write the whole lot of us off as brigands and bastards, Seph.”

I turned my head away from the fire to see Bay studying me angrily. “Fine.” The word surprised him, like he didn’t expect me to give in. “What is it you people do, anyways?”

His incensed look flipped into a slow-building smile. “You’ll see bright and early tomorrow, Sister.” He patted my knee before standing from the fire and stretching his arms over his head. “We make our own lives.”

He reached a hand down to help me up.

I blinked at the hand, feeling that if I took it, I would be submitting to whatever the Diplomats had to offer me—good or bad. I hesitated. There was grime behind his dirty nails, marks on his hand.

“Are you ready to take control of your life, Seph?”

I blinked and took his hand, finally, and stood.

With a curt nod, I let him lead me away to a busted tent pushed up against a pile of rubbish, which he said I could use to sleep in and be unbothered. It was a small relief, at least, having a place to lay my head where I didn’t have to battle the elements.

I would let Baylen think I was conceding and he had me convinced . . . even though I was quite certain my young friend had simply replaced one set of shackles from the House with a new set of chains from the Diplomats.

I awoke to the sounds of yelling outside. It jolted me out of the best sleep I’d had in weeks, ever since escaping the House of the Broken. I rubbed grime from my eyes before pushing my tent-flap open to poke my head out and see what was going on.

Dimmon Plank paced in front of Jeffrith, who was wide-eyed with fear in front of the Diplomat leader.

I felt a perverse twinge of satisfaction seeing Jeffrith squirm, and a greater sense of confusion at what was transpiring. Jeffrith’s hands nervously fidgeted in front of his belly while Dimmon chastised him.

“What do you mean missing , Jeffro?!” he shouted at the young man, throwing his beefy arms into the air.

A gaggle of Diplomats had emerged from their tents in the early morning chill. Behind Jeffrith stood five members from his Third Crew—what I assumed was the name of his subset gang in the wider Diplomat hierarchy.

“I-I says it like it is, Dimmon, sir,” Jeffrith stammered. “Layson ain’t coming back.”

Dimmon paused, showing Jeffrith his back. I gasped when his gaze landed on me off the side of the road, with a glint of devilry in his eyes. It took everything to keep from wilting and hiding inside my tent.

The foul-smelling leader abruptly rounded on Jeffrith and punched him in the side of the face.

Jeffrith toppled over with a groan, kicking up muck and dust as he landed in a heap. His crewmates gasped, taking a step back at the swift violence.

Dimmon kicked Jeffrith in the side. If I hadn’t known what kind of man Jeffrith was, I might have felt bad for him.

“Ain’t your job to tell me who is and ain’t coming back, boy !” Dimmon shouted. Spittle flew from his beard. For good measure, he spat on Jeffrith’s writhing body.

The leader spun on the next mate in line—a girl who looked close to my age yet much smaller. She didn’t even come up to his chest in height.

“You!” he snarled. “Tell me what happened.”

The girl’s gaunt face blanched. She nodded incessantly, lips moving without words.

“Speak, dammit,” Dimmon cursed.

The girl did just that, in a rush. “L-Layson was standing next to me, sir, in an alley next to Fevron’s clothes cart, yeah? W-We was just, uh, we was just getting ready to pull one on ol’ Fevron, yeah? I turns to give Lay the signal, and a sh-sh-shadow just . . .”

“Just. What?” Dimmon said slowly.

“Appeared out of nowhere and snatched him up! It was all black in that alley, yeah, sir? Then I looks up and see Lay’s feet kicking!”

“You looked up ? Explain yourself, Jinneth.”

“Right, yeah, sir. I looks up the wall of the alley. His boots kicked and then he was over the lip of the roof and just . . . poof ! Gone!” She frantically pointed over at a skinny boy. “Taclo’s got his boot, he does! Yeah, Tac? It fells off Lay’s foot as he was lifted, sir!”

The boy named Taclo reached into a sack on his shoulder and produced the raggedy leather boot, lifting it into the air like an artifact of great import.

The entire audience of Diplomats let out a singular “Ohh” sound of worried surprise.

Dimmon pulled at his bushy beard. He paced, even as Jinneth helped Jeffrith get to his feet. She patted the taller boy on the back. When they stood next to each other I noticed their similarity.

Jeffrith grabbed at his stomach where Dimmon had kicked him when he was down, hunching over to shoot Jinneth a tiny smile. “Thanks, sis.”

My eyes narrowed. Besides their likeness in name, they had a likeness in stature: skinny, gaunt, shaggy brown hair. Clearly, Jinneth was Jeffrith’s blood-sister, which made my stomach knot.

It would be harder to hate Jeffrith now, knowing he had a sister to look after. There was a distinct possibility Jeffrith was only part of the Diplomats because he had a sister to look after. Damn the True, I thought with a sigh, trying to summon my rage.

Dimmon stopped pacing and punched his fist into his open palm. “Fucking bloodies !” He raised a finger into the sky before anyone could react. “Round up, curs! We’re goin’ scouring!”

The dumping grounds became a commotion of movement after that—tents opening, creaky hovel doors swinging and shutting, feet pounding the muddy street. People threw on backpacks. I noticed a few glinting sheens stashed on their persons. Daggers. Knives. Clubs. The Diplomats were arming themselves.

Baylen ran up to me from his tent. He reached behind him, pulled out a dagger, and handed it to me handle-first. “Here.”

I’d never held a dagger in my life. “What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked, shocked.

“Stick someone with it if the job goes awry, Seph.”

I gulped. “The job , Bay?”

“Dimmon thinks a bloody took Lay, so we’re going bloodsucker-hunting.”

Fear gripped me from the inside, clamping on my veins. “There are fullbloods here , in Nuhav?”

He nodded grimly. “Plenty of ‘em, Seph. That noble life up in Olhav ain’t for everyone. Outcast vamps, masterless thralls, you name it. They been haunting our streets long as Nuhav’s been around.

” When I remained speechless and stunned, he gave me a smug smile.

“Bet the House never taught you that , eh?”

My jaw clenched. I slowly shook my head.

And I wrapped my fingers around the leather handle of the dagger he offered me.