The operator overturns the final cup. The boy is correct. He wins.
The operator glances up sharply. The malfetto boy lets out a surprised shout of joy, while the other players glare angrily at him. Hate appears in their chests as sparks, flashes of energy that merge into black spots.
“What do you think?” I ask Violetta. “Do you sense anything about his energy?”
Violetta’s gaze stays fixed on the celebrating boy. “Follow him.”
The operator reluctantly hands over his purse, along with the money that the rest of us bet. As the boy collects the coins, I observe the other players muttering among themselves. When the boy leaves the operator’s stand, the others trail behind him, their faces tight and shoulders tense.
They are going to attack him. “Let’s go,” I whisper to Violetta. She follows without a word.
For a while, the boy seems too happy with his winnings to recognize the danger he has put himself in. It isn’t until he reaches the edge of the square that he notices the other players. He keeps going, but now at a nervous pace. I sense his inkling of fear grow to a steady trickle, and the sweet taste of it entices me.
The boy darts out of the square and onto a narrow side street where the lights are dim and the people are scarce. Violetta and I settle into the shadows, and I paint a subtle illusion over us to keep us hidden. I frown at the boy. A person as notorious as Magiano surely wouldn’t be this tactless.
Finally, one of the other gamblers catches up with him. Before the boy can lift up his hands, the gambler trips him.
A second gambler pretends to stumble over his body, but kicks him in the stomach as he goes. The boy yelps and his fear changes to terror—now I can see the threads of it hovering over him in a dark, shimmering web.
In the blink of an eye, the other gamblers have surrounded him. One grabs him by his shirt and shoves him up against the wall. His head hits it hard, and in an instant, his eyes roll back. He collapses to the ground and curls up into a ball.
“Why did you run away?” one of them says to the malfetto. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself, cheating us out of all our money.”
The others chime in.
“What does a malfetto need all that money for, anyway?”
“Going to hire a dottore to fix your markings?”
“Hiring a whore so you can find out what it’s like?”
I just watch. When I first joined the Daggers and witnessed malfettos being abused, I would go back to my chamber and cry. I’ve seen it enough times now to stay composed, to let the fear of such a scene feed me without feeling guilty about it. So as the attackers continue to torture the boy, I stand by and feel nothing but anticipation.
The malfetto boy scrambles to his feet before the others can strike him again—he dashes down the street. They pursue him.
“He’s not an Elite,” Violetta murmurs as they go. She shakes her head, her expression genuinely puzzled. “I’m sorry. I must have sensed someone else.”
I don’t know why I feel a desire to keep following the group. If he’s not Magiano, then I have no reason to help him. Perhaps it’s pent-up frustration or the allure of dark feelings. Or the memory of the Daggers’ refusal to ever risk saving malfettos unless they were Elites. Perhaps it’s the memory of myself pushed against an iron stake, pelted with stones, waiting to burn before an entire city.
For a fleeting moment, I imagine that if I were queen, I could make the act of hurting malfettos a crime. I could execute this boy’s pursuers with a single command.
I start hurrying after them. “Come on,” I urge Violetta.
“Don’t,” she starts to tell me, even though she knows it’s pointless.
“I’ll be nice.” I smile.
She raises an eyebrow at me. “Your idea of nice is different from others’.”
We hurry along in the darkness, invisible behind an illusion I’ve woven. Shouts come from up ahead as the boy turns a corner in an attempt to throw off his pursuers. No use. As we draw near, I hear the others catch up to him and his cry of pain ring out. When we turn the corner too, the attackers have completely surrounded him. One of them knocks the boy to the ground with a blow to the face.
I act before I can stop myself. In one move, I reach out and push aside the threads hiding us from view. Then I walk straight into their circle. Violetta stays where she is, looking on quietly.
It takes a moment for the attackers to notice me there—not until I walk right over to the quivering malfetto boy and stand in front of him do they finally see me. They hesitate.
“What’s this?” the ringleader mutters, confused for a moment. His eyes dart across the illusion still covering my scarred face. What he sees is a whole, beautiful girl. His grin returns. “Is this your whore, filthy malfetto?” he taunts the boy. “How did you get so lucky?”