To my left, a man missing his left eye sharpens a machete on a stone block. He holds it up to glint in the green torchlight. Behind him, a vendor sells rice and meat that he claims is lamb, but I’m fairly certain it’s either horse or rat, judging from the tough-looking exterior. Farther down, a woman nearly six and a half feet tall sits on top of a group of cages. They’re exotic animals, she says. Some better than hunting dogs, others the warmest of pets. But that dragon snake, with its horns and spiked tail, only looks half dragon snake. Most of the animals are mutts, a little bit what she claims but mostly descended from rodents or pests found wandering the Festival during our travels.
Someone taps my shoulder. Reflexively, I whip around and shriek. It’s an older woman, her skin covered in age spots, and she cringes away in the face of my outburst.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She grumbles something unintelligible and holds up a strand of vials full of a pink liquid. “Someone so jumpy shouldn’t be in the Downhill,” she says. “Maybe you’re looking for something sweet? A little love juice? Just a drop in that special someone’s tea, just a dab behind the ear—”
“No, thank you,” I say. That sounds like the sort of thing Unu and Du might slip into Hawk’s drink to give her hives. Besides, I like to think that when I eventually find love, it won’t be from a charm. That is hardly fit for fairy tales, and I don’t intend to settle for anything less.
“It’s from Madame Lamoratore, an experienced charm-worker—”
“I’m not interested.” I brush past her and hurry down the path, retracing the route to Luca’s tent.
Cheers cry out from my right. I turn and face a crowd gathering around a platform, one I realize I’ve seen before—while it was empty, anyway. An enormous man the size of two or three people is strangling someone beneath him. I can’t make out the other person, except for a hint of blond hair and the fact that the victim is much smaller than the giant attacking him. After another fifteen seconds, his arms go limp, and he slumps against his stool. The larger man turns and throws a fist in the air. The crowd cheers louder.
I didn’t realize killing was now a sport in the Downhill. I’m about to turn away in disgust when the smaller, dead man with blond hair stands up. It’s Luca—almost impossible to recognize out of his usual, obtrusive clothes. He coughs up a bit of blood and spits it onto the stage.
An Up-Mountain woman next to me blesses herself. “That’s devil-work,” she says. “Cursed are the demon-workers, for they will return to the depths.”
The large man swivels around. “What?” he roars. “You were dead. I killed ya.”
“And now I’m back.” Luca smiles his insincere smile. “That was a remarkable attempt, sir, but I think we should let someone else take a turn.”
After some cursing and grumbling, he leaves, and another man climbs onto the stage. He has a wide nose and dark, beady eyes. He reminds me of a cockroach.
“What’s your name, sir?” Luca asks.
“Garrett.”
“I have poisons, knives, rope...you can take your pick—”
“I’ll use my own sword, thanks,” Garrett says. He pulls it out of its sheath. It’s jagged but appears sharp enough. “You don’t mind if I use my own sword, do ya?”
“Not at all.”
Before Luca can ready himself, Garrett swings his sword straight through Luca’s neck. His head thumps to the stage and rolls off and onto the grass at my feet. I cover my mouth with my hands and fight back the urge to vomit. Red blood stains the dirt. Luca’s bedroom brown eyes look very dead.
I sway and put my hands on my knees to regain my composure. It doesn’t matter if I didn’t like him. Too much blood. Too much death. My chest tightens, and the anxiety from earlier returns in full force, as if it had never left at all. I back away so the blood doesn’t touch me.
“I killed him,” Garrett shouts. “I killed him. So I get the four hundred gold ones.”
A middle-aged Southern Islander woman looks hesitantly from the bag of winnings to Luca’s limp, bloody body on the stage. “I’m not sure—”
“He’s dead, bitch,” Garrett says. He rips the bag out of the woman’s hand.
Below me, Luca blinks his eyes and stares up at me. I scream. He mouths something, but no sound comes out. I suppose, without lungs, he wouldn’t be able to speak.
Revolted, I gently pick up his head and lift it to my level. A bit of blood dribbles onto my tunic.
Luca’s eyes dart around until he notices his body. One by one, his limbs move on their own. He stands up, headless. Garrett turns around and shrieks as Luca’s body tackles him at the feet of the Islander woman. Garrett doesn’t put up much of a fight, and Luca stands, the bag of winnings clutched in his hand, blood spilled all the way down his clothes. He walks to the opposite side of the stage, toward me, and reaches down. I hand him his head, my stomach performing somersaults.
He screws it back on as if he’s a doll, flesh reattaching to flesh.
“That ain’t right,” Garrett yells. He clutches his religious necklace. “You’re some kind of demon.”
Luca grins and stuffs the heavy bag of winnings in his vest. “I think that’s it for the night.” He hops off the stage and lands at my side. “Thanks, princess,” he says. I’m too stricken to bother correcting him for using that nickname. “I usually have a block ready in case someone beheads me. I don’t like to get myself dirty.” He licks his hand and rubs some dirt off his chin. Around us, the crowd dissipates and moves on to a new attraction.
“That was repugnant,” I say.
“I usually do better the bloodier it is,” he says. “Some people put money in without even trying to kill me. They just get a kick out of watching me die.”
Maybe that’s because you’re an ass, I want to say, but then feel ashamed of the thought. These people don’t know him. They’re merely cruel.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” I ask.
“Only for a moment.” He taps my mask. “I like your mask today. Very sparkly.”
“Thanks.” My mask is silver and covered in glass fragments, smoothed by a translucent coating. Its reflections shimmer green from the Downhill’s torches. “Why do you let them do that?”
“The money, of course,” he says, his voice hollow. “Even demon-workers have to eat.”
What a pitiful way to survive.
“I didn’t intend for you to witness my gruesome spectacle,” Luca says. “You’re early.”
“I said nine.”
“And forgetful.” He studies my messenger bag. “What are you carrying?”
“Some books,” I answer.
He swiftly snatches a book out of the bag, nimbler than a pickpocket. “A Complete List and History of Gomorrah Proprietors?”
I grab it from his hands and return it to its place. It’s no secret in Gomorrah that I’m Villiam’s heir, but I don’t want anyone overhearing clandestine information.
“Can we talk in private?” I ask.
“Yes. Let’s take our discussion elsewhere. Away from prying ears.” I peek over my shoulder, and there are others watching us. Children crouching behind the stage or tents, wondering if the seemingly blind girl would make a good target to pickpocket—as if they can assume anything about me simply from one appraisal. Some of Luca’s audience members, lingering for any additional entertainment.
Luca avoids their stares and leads me to his tent next door. The gossip-worker sign I kicked down the other day has been put upright. He must think I’m such a child. How embarrassing. I take a seat at the table while Luca pinches at the fabric of his shirt, damp from blood. “Would you like something to drink?” he asks.