III
For all the digging he’d done through the ruins of the Ruby Fields, Kell had failed to notice the alley where he’d been attacked—and where he’d left two bodies behind—only hours before. If he’d ventured there, he would have seen that one of those bodies—the cutthroat previously encased in stone—was missing.
That same cutthroat now made his way down the curb, humming faintly as he relished the warmth of the sun and the far-off sounds of celebration.
His body wasn’t doing very well. Better than the other shell, of course, the drunkard in the duller London; that one hadn’t lasted long at all. This one had fared better, much better, but now it was all burnt up inside and beginning to blacken without, the darkness spreading through its veins and over its skin like a stain. He looked less like a man now, and more like a charred piece of wood.
But that was to be expected. After all, he had been busy.
The night before, the lights of the pleasure house had burned bright and luring in the dark, and a woman stood waiting for him in the doorway with a painted smile and hair the color of fire, of life.
“Avan, res nastar,” she purred in the smooth Arnesian tongue. She drew up her skirts as she said it, flashing a glimpse of knee. “Won’t you come in?”
And he had, the cutthroat’s coins jingling in his pocket.
She’d led him down a hall—it was dark, much darker than it had been outside—and he’d let her lead, enjoying the feel of her hand—or in truth, her pulse—in his. She never looked him in the eyes, or she might have seen that they were darker than the hall around them. Instead, she focused on his lips, his collar, his belt.
He was still learning the nuances of his new body, but he managed to press his cracking lips to the woman’s soft mouth. Something passed between them—the ember of a pure black flame—and the woman shivered.
“As Besara,” he whispered in her ear. Take.
He slid the dress from her shoulders and kissed her deeper, his darkness passing over her tongue and through her head, intoxicating. Power. Everybody wanted it, wanted to be closer to magic, to its source. And she welcomed it. Welcomed him. Nerves tingled as the magic took them, feasting on the current of life, the blood, the body. He’d taken the drunkard, Booth, by force, but a willing host was always better. Or at least, they tended to last longer.
“As Herena,” he cooed, pressing the woman’s body back onto the bed. Give.
“As Athera,” he moaned as he took her, and she took him in. Grow.
They moved together like a perfect pulse, one bleeding into the other, and when it was over, and the woman’s eyes floated open, they reflected his, both a glossy black. The thing inside her skin pulled her rouged lips into a crooked smile.
“As Athera,” she echoed, sliding up from the bed. He rose and followed, and they set out—one mind in two bodies—first through the pleasure house, and then through the night.
Yes, he had been busy.
He could feel himself spreading through the city as he made his way toward the waiting red river, the pulse of magic and life laid out like a promised feast.
IV
Fletcher’s shop was built like a maze, arranged in a way that only the snake himself would understand. Kell had spent the last ten minutes turning through drawers and had uncovered a variety of weapons and charms, and a fairly innocuous parasol, but no white rook. He groaned and tossed the parasol aside.
“Can’t you just find the damned thing using magic?” asked Lila.
“The whole place is warded,” answered Kell. “Against locator spells. And against thieving, so put that back.”
Lila dropped the trinket she was about to palm back on the counter. “So,” she said, considering the contents of a glass case, “you and Fletcher are friends?”
Kell pictured Fletcher’s face the night he’d lost the pot. “Not exactly.”
Lila raised a brow. “Good,” she said. “More fun to steal from enemies.”
Enemies was a fair word. The strange thing was, they could have been partners.
“A smuggler and a fence,” he’d said. “We’d make a perfect team.”
“I’ll pass,” said Kell. But when the game of Sanct had been in its last hand, and he’d known that he had won, he’d baited Fletcher with the one thing he wouldn’t refuse. “Anesh,” he’d conceded. “If you win, I’ll work for you.”
Fletcher had smiled his greedy smile and drawn his last card.
And Kell had smiled back and played his hand and won everything, leaving Fletcher with nothing more than a bruised ego and a small white rook.
No hard feelings.
Now Kell turned over half the store, searching for the token and glancing every few moments at the door while his own face watched them from the scrying board on the wall.
MISSING
Meanwhile, Lila had stopped searching and was staring at a framed map. She squinted and tilted her head, frowning as if something were amiss.
“What is it?” asked Kell.
“Where’s Paris?” she asked, pointing to the place on the continent where it should be.
“There is no Paris,” said Kell, rummaging through a cupboard. “No France. No England, either.”
“But how can there be a London without an England?”
“I told you, the city’s a linguistic oddity. Here London is the capital of Arnes.”
“So Arnes is simply your name for England.”
Kell laughed. “No,” he said, shaking his head as he crossed to her side. “Arnes covers more than half of your Europe. The island—your England—is called the raska. The crown. But it’s only the tip of the empire.” He traced the territory lines with his fingertip. “Beyond our country lies Vesk, to the north, and Faro, to the south.”
“And beyond them?”
Kell shrugged. “More countries. Some grand, some small. It’s a whole world, after all.”
Her gaze trailed over the map, eyes bright. A small private smile crossed her lips. “Yes, it is.”
She pulled away and wandered into another room. And then moments later, she called, “Aha!”
Kell started. “Did you find it?” he called back.
She reappeared, holding up her prize, but it wasn’t the rook. It was a knife. Kell’s spirits sank.
“No,” she said, “but isn’t this clever?” She held it up for Kell to see. The hilt of the dagger wasn’t simply a grip; the metal curved around over the knuckles in a wavering loop before rejoining the stock.
“For hitting,” explained Lila, as if Kell couldn’t grasp the meaning of the metal knuckles. “You can stab them, or you can knock their teeth out. Or you can do both.” She touched the tip of the blade with her finger. “Not at the same time, of course.”
“Of course,” echoed Kell, shutting a cabinet. “You’re very fond of weapons.”
Lila stared at him blankly. “Who isn’t?”
“And you already have a knife,” he pointed out.
“So?” asked Lila, admiring the grip. “No such thing as too many knives.”
“You’re a violent sort.”
She wagged the blade. “We can’t all turn blood and whispers into weapons.”
Kell bristled. “I don’t whisper. And we’re not here to loot.”
“I thought that’s exactly why we’re here.”
Kell sighed and continued to look around the shop. He’d turned over the whole thing, including Fletcher’s cramped little room at the back, and come up empty. Fletcher wouldn’t have sold it … or would he? Kell closed his eyes, letting his senses wander, as if maybe he could feel the foreign magic. But the space was practically humming with power, overlapping tones that made it impossible to parse the foreign and forbidden from the merely forbidden.
“I’ve got a question,” said Lila, her pockets jingling suspiciously.
“Of course you do.” Kell sighed, opening his eyes. “And I thought I said no thieving.”
She chewed her lip and dug a few stones and a metal contraption even Kell didn’t recognize the use of out of her pocket, setting them on a chest. “You said the worlds were cut off. So how does this man—Fletcher—have a piece of White London?”
Kell sifted through a desk he swore he’d searched, then felt under the lip for hidden drawers. “Because I gave it to him.”
“Well, what were you doing with it?” Her eyes narrowed. “Did you steal it?”
Kell frowned. He had. “No.”
“Liar.”
“I didn’t take it for myself,” said Kell. “Few people in your world know about mine. Those that do—Collectors and Enthusiasts—are willing to pay a precious sum for a piece of it. A trinket. A token. In my world, most know about yours—a few people are as intrigued by your mundaneness as you are by our magic—but everyone knows about the other London. White London. And for a piece of that world, some would pay dearly.”
A wry smile cut across Lila’s mouth. “You’re a smuggler.”
“Says the pickpocket,” snapped Kell defensively.
“I know I’m a thief,” said Lila, lifting a red lin from the top of the chest and rolling it over her knuckles. “I’ve accepted that. It’s not my fault that you haven’t.” The coin vanished. Kell opened his mouth to protest, but the lin reappeared an instant later in her other palm. “I don’t understand, though. If you’re a royal—”
“I’m not—”
Lila gave him a withering look. “If you live with royals and you dine with them and you belong to them, surely you don’t want for money. Why risk it?”
Kell clenched his jaw, thinking of Rhy’s plea to stop his foolish games. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Lila quirked a brow. “Crime isn’t that complicated,” she said. “People steal because taking something gives them something. If they’re not in it for the money, they’re in it for control. The act of taking, of breaking the rules, makes them feel powerful. They’re in it for the sheer defiance.” She turned away. “Some people steal to stay alive, and some steal to feel alive. Simple as that.”
“And which are you?” asked Kell.
“I steal for freedom,” said Lila. “I suppose that’s a bit of both.” She wandered into a short hallway between two rooms. “So that’s how you came across the black rock?” she called back. “You made a deal for it?”
“No,” said Kell. “I made a mistake. One I intend to fix, if I can find the damned thing.” He slammed a drawer shut in frustration.
“Careful,” said a gruff voice in Arnesian. “You might break something.”