by Melissa Marr
Aya drove the second knife into his chest.
“I’m so sorry, Bel,” she whispered as he fell atop her. “I didn’t have any other choices.”
He wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that there were choices she could’ve made, but his lips wouldn’t move. All he could do was stare at her, looking for tears, remorse, something to prove he hadn’t been so very wrong about her.
And then, even that was impossible. His eyes lost focus, and the world vanished.
CHAPTER 4
EVENING WAS FALLING AS Kaleb walked toward the Carnival of Souls. After Mallory had fled, he’d returned home. There was no reason to be in the human world if not to see her, so he returned to The City to tend to business matters at the carnival. Hunting her was the only big contracted job he had currently, but until the contract was complete, he needed to supplement his meager funds when he could. That meant visiting the carnival.
Unfortunately, every time he saw Mallory, he was consumed by thoughts of her for hours afterward. Kaleb hadn’t known much about Mallory when he was sent to find her, but in the past couple months, he’d studied how she moved, how she protected her home and her secrets. She was Marchosias’ daughter whether or not she knew it, and whatever human had sheltered her had clearly taught her caution that she took to very naturally. Once he’d started approaching her, she responded with interest, but she’d never allowed Kaleb anywhere near her home, had pretended not to be seeking threats as they spoke, and in general demonstrated an innate sense of vigilance. She intrigued him.
Haage hadn’t yet sent him to the human world to kill her, and the more time Kaleb spent with her, the more grateful he was for that. He liked her. It was foolishness, and he could work around it, but he found himself wishing Haage would change his mind. Stranger still, he had considered breaking his contract and bringing her to Marchosias. Both plans were risky; either option meant crossing one of the two most powerful daimons in The City. Soon, Kaleb would need to decide where his loyalties were—with Haage or with Marchosias.
His ultimate loyalty was to himself and his pack, regardless of whether he temporarily sided with Haage or with Marchosias. Right now, Kaleb’s pack was only two—him and Zevi—but Kaleb would do whatever he must to make them safe. Neither Haage or Marchosias were pack. They were simply daimons with a lot of power.
Tonight, though, Kaleb would bide his time in the Carnival of Souls. It wasn’t a hardship: everything of note started or ended here. Judgments were served here; negotiations of every sort took place in the shadows of vendors’ stalls. Marchosias had decreed, long before Kaleb was born, that the carnival would serve as the mercantile and service center of The City.
It was the epicenter of The City itself. Spiraling out around the carnival were a tangle of narrow streets and old buildings that made up clearly stratified living sections. At the edges, the Untamed Lands encroached; nature tried to consume The City, and they tried to keep it at bay. Before the Witch Wars, The City was larger, but the witches had set nature against the daimons in their final departing blow. For several centuries now, daimons had worked regularly to cut back the growth and try to protect The City. Here at the center, though, was a place of business and pleasure. Music played constantly. Blind drummers played outside the tents where delicate deals were arranged; ensembles in the employ of the pleasure vendors enticed customers with their music as dancers demonstrated their flexibility; and others simply played for the coins that were tossed into their baskets. At times it was a glorious cacophony. Jugglers and fire twirlers showed their skills in time to the music. All the while, hawkers sold their wares to those ensnared by the music, sometimes literally.
For all the violence in the The City—much of it in the carnival—there was beauty, too, especially here. As he walked, Kaleb’s steps caught the rhythm of a daimon who leaned against a vendor stall, tapping out patterns on a skin drum. The daimon had his eyes closed, and Kaleb smiled at the joy in the man’s face.
Carefully, Kaleb swung up into the rafters that supported the vast ceiling covering the centermost stalls and worked his way farther into the heart of the carnival. He stopped when the matchboard was directly across from him. Aya’s win over Belias had been posted, so Kaleb’s was the only match left undeclared. As with all matches, the public odds were listed for betting purposes. Kaleb wasn’t favored to win, but he hadn’t been discounted, either. It was a compliment to Nic’s and his standings that this fight was the final match in this round—or perhaps it was a challenge. Either way, theirs was the only nonticketed fight of the round, so the crowd would be overwhelming and unruly. A few fights, those expected to be particularly exciting, were left unticketed so anyone and everyone could enjoy the spectacle. In such cases, the fight circle would be as much for keeping the bystanders out as for ensuring that the fighters stayed in play. Neither crowd nor fighters could cross the circle without debilitating pain.
Kaleb tucked himself behind one of the pennants that fluttered in the slight breeze. The vibrant swath of material hid him from the sight of almost all of the daimons below him, as he took a moment to study the betting that had begun on the ground.
“Ten to one Kaleb is maimed,” one of the hawkers called.
“Bets on mercy deaths,” another beckoned.
“Death by claws,” suggested a cur. It was a popular bet for any of the cur fights; death by claws was a likely outcome, but the odds on claws were always better when Kaleb fought. He didn’t like using teeth, but claws were comfortable—and a crowd-pleaser. Audiences liked to see the sort of fights that invited foot-stomping, guttural-growling bloodthirst. Kaleb’s fights delivered what they wanted.
The cur met Kaleb’s gaze, waiting for the cue. He was the one Kaleb had been seeking.
When Kaleb nodded, the cur sauntered over to stand underneath Kaleb’s hiding place and leaned casually against a rough wooden post.
Kaleb crouched down and said in a low voice, “No claws before third blood. Cut me ten percent of the take, and I’ll guarantee it.”
The cur didn’t look up at him, but he flashed a toothy smile and nodded. He didn’t call out yet, but he’d only be able to wait for a few moments before attracting attention.
Side business complete, Kaleb hopped up and walked along the crossbeam. Once he was far enough from the betting house he’d tipped, he swung to the ground. Getting caught adjusting odds wasn’t likely since he didn’t tip any betting house regularly, and none of the houses were likely to submit him for judgment for adding to their profits. If the other fighters had any sense, they’d do the same, but too many of them were from castes that didn’t think creatively. That, as much as their skills in the matches, would keep them from changing their futures. Kaleb was a cur though—a daimon species that was near the bottom of the caste order. As a child he’d been even lower: he’d had no pack. His parents had abandoned him, so he survived as a street scab, too low to even have caste. Most such daimons died; Kaleb hadn’t. He’d fought, killed, and endured until he had the strength and power to earn respect on the streets. The competition could enable him to achieve far more than that.
Because most daimons couldn’t achieve caste mobility the way Marchosias had—through military actions—once every twenty years, Marchosias opened the caste lines to allow one daimon to win the right to join the ruling caste. It was a fierce fight, one with few survivors, and anyone of age to enter was forever disqualified from future competitions. To Kaleb’s mind, though, it was no less brutal than the future he’d face if he remained in the lowest caste. As a cur, odds were that he’d die by violence, better to try to change his status while he was at the top of his game than to grow complacent and be caught in the streets by a fighter intent on establishing status by eliminating an older cur. The only other fate he could have if he survived long enough was to find a protector who would use him for pleasure or violence. Or both. That was the lot in life for those in his caste. Those in the middle castes were educated or trained as tradesmen. The ruling
caste made the decisions. In The City, one’s lot in life was determined by birth. Kaleb wasn’t content with that lot—but he wasn’t going to overlook the assets it offered either.
During the fight year, he had wandered the Carnival of Souls regularly. Being seen made him available for tips; it made him accessible to those seeking mask-work. He hadn’t accepted many jobs this year, but it kept him plugged into the underground where he’d grown up. The carnival was a thriving network of favors traded and impossibilities procured. It was as much a part of his success to date as his fighting skills.
This time, information was what he needed. Nic wasn’t the same caliber of fighter as Sol or Flynn, but he was the best that Kaleb had faced in a while. Skill wasn’t everything though. If it were the only determining factor, Kaleb would be dead by now. Information on the opposition had been essential. Spies reported on injuries, fighting weaknesses, and any number of little details that could change a bout. Equally game changing was the willingness to do things that would disgust one of the upper classes. Those of better breeding castes didn’t use claws or teeth; those of the highest breeding castes didn’t fight dirty against women.
Curs, on the other hand, didn’t fight by caste rules. Such luxuries were reserved for those who had learned their skills in fight clubs where they sparred for bets or trophies. Kaleb—and his opponent in this match—had learned to fight in order to survive, to eat, and to avoid being meat to every predator in the shadows. It made for a different degree of ruthlessness.
The sounds of the carnival were raucous this late. The evening hours between the carnival and the Night Market were often the quietest part of the day, but the hum of energy hadn’t yet died down from the day vendors. Instead, it was almost as busy as it was midday. Several of the other fighters were out still. Aya, the only highborn female to ever fight, stood in the shadowed enclosure of a weapons vendor. Sol was leaving with a pair of trades-class girls. As Kaleb passed the stalls, curs, midclasses, and a few of the ruling-class girls stared boldly at him, but he wasn’t so naive as to believe it was about him personally. They were intrigued by his brutality, or they were forward planning. He’d have power if he won the competition. Few people in The City would outrank him after that.
He wandered farther into the carnival. Across from the stalls that sold clothing for pleasure vendors, a crowd had gathered. Crowds weren’t unusual here; they were, however, a good sign of what to notice. He wound his way between the bodies, snarling a few times at foolish pickpockets and people taking advantage of the crowd to sneak a grope.
“For the crime of unauthorized witchery—” The remaining words were lost under the yelling of the spectators.
A guillotine blade lowered on a woman’s neck, and Kaleb realized with a start that it was a Judgment Day. The most important laws in The City were enforced by witch magic so that punishment was instantaneous if the law was broken. Only lesser or unexpected crimes were subject to judgment. Many laws were absolute, and for matters open to debate, judgment for transgressions was rendered quickly.
Before the corpse was done twitching, the next case was being called, and the volume of the crowd increased—which meant that there was an interesting case. Kaleb had no idea what it could be. He’d been so focused on the fight tomorrow and on having seen Mallory that he’d missed any news.
As he pushed to the front, the crowds parted more easily for him than for any save the ruling caste and the other fighters. It was a strange feeling after years of being shoved aside like refuse. When Kaleb reached the front of the crowd, he saw that Aya now stood near the platform.
“I bring charge for the unsanctioned death of Verie,” the accuser said. He didn’t look like the sort who’d be friends with a cur, but the actual accusers were rarely the ones to bring charges. The risk was too great. Retribution against accusers fell swiftly. Paying or blackmailing a daimon to level the charge provided anonymity for the higher-caste accusers and offered easy income to those willing to risk the retribution—or willing to sell out the accuser.
It was a gamble either way. If the accuser didn’t kill you to protect his anonymity, the accused—or their loved ones— might kill you. On the other hand, it was an easy way to profit both from the accuser and from selling out the accuser. The trick was in knowing how far to push and when to let go.
“Aya, you are charged with nonsanctioned death,” the judge announced.
The ripples of excitement in the crowd made more sense now. The fighters were increasingly newsworthy at this stage. It had been almost a year of fights, and the remaining contestants were all known by sight—none more so than Aya.
By now, many of The City’s inhabitants had come to believe that Aya walked the edge of civility. She was at the carnival, seeming completely at ease despite having eliminated her former betrothed, Belias, only hours prior and currently facing judgment for an unsanctioned kill. At this point, Kaleb wouldn’t be surprised if he heard that she stayed for the Night Market after judgment was passed. Aya seemed determined to prove that she was utterly undaunted by every part of their world that highborn women were taught to avoid—and curs wished they could avoid. She made no sense to him. She had been born to privilege, yet she risked everything to gain the right to work.
Kaleb decided to walk away. He had a fight in the morning, and watching judgment always made him feel ill. He would hear the ruling tomorrow just as easily. He left the crush of bodies, and in the shadow of an unoccupied stall, he slipped on an unornamented black mask. His current mask didn’t cover his whole face, but it hid enough of his features that between the mask and his plain clothes, he could disappear into the crowd. Just another killer. He walked farther from the seething press of bodies, as eager to get away from them now as he had been to be among them earlier, but before he got very far, a ripple of excited words stopped him.
“Marchosias.”
“Marchosias is here.”
“To deliver punishment?”
“To deliver absolution!”
“Who cares? He’s here.”
The words were uttered with reverence as the ruler of The City strode across the wooden stage with the same casual ease he’d use walking into a shopping stall. As he removed his jacket, he made his stance on the proceedings known: Marchosias had donned a sleeveless tunic that revealed a number of scars from long-ago fights. Without a word, he made clear that he stood with the accused fighter.
As Marchosias turned to face the crowd, he glanced at Aya and smiled, and Kaleb felt a burn of envy. Not only had Aya defeated an opponent largely expected to force her to forfeit, but now she’d secured the backing of the head of the ruling class. Being lower in the ranking didn’t matter nearly as much if she had already gained Marchosias’ support. The judges would bow to Marchosias’ will, and Aya’s ability to score bloodpoints would increase immediately.
“Call witnesses,” Marchosias directed.
Aya’s stand-in accuser blanched, but he held his voice steady as he called forth a number of witnesses. Each and all offered very precise details citing Aya as the deliverer of Verie’s death.
Finally, Aya herself stepped forward.
The judge was now barely restraining himself from looking at Marchosias. He looked directly at Aya, who stood as if she were without any care. Like Marchosias, she had decided to make a wordless statement: her kill trophies hung over a shirt that was one of the finest weaves and cuts available. At first glance, it appeared to have a floral pattern, but a second glance made clear that the pattern was bloodstains. In her simple choice of clothing, she reminded everyone there of her bravado, her caste, and her kills.
The judge motioned her closer, and as she stepped onto the platform, he looked at her bloody kill trophies. Aya touched her fingertips to the claws, talons, and teeth she wore like pearls.
The judge opened his mouth briefly and then closed it as Marchosias laughed.
“Do you offer answer?” the judge asked. “You are charged with—”
�
��She heard the charge,” Marchosias interrupted. “Aya?”
She shrugged. “Verie offered unlawful aid to one of my competitors. He tipped Reni about the fight site, providing information that resulted in unfair opportunities to hide weapons there.” She reached up and tapped a claw that hung in the center of her necklace. “I still won, but his interference was a violation of competition rules.”
The crowd took a collective breath.
Marchosias growled before asking the accuser, “Do you have evidence that Verie was not aiding one of the contenders unfairly and undercutting the rules of my competition?”
“No.”
“Do any of your witnesses?” the judge added with a brief glance at Marchosias, who now stood with his arms folded over his chest.
“My witnesses . . .” The accuser looked around him; all of the witnesses were gone. “No.”
“Do you have evidence that this cur’s death was unjust and by a ruling-caste woman?” the judge prompted. He paused only briefly before pronouncing, “Aya, the judgment on your action finds you unaccountable and—”
“I ask to be held accountable.” Aya lifted her gaze to Marchosias. “If judgment finds that Verie was interfering with the competition, his death is eligible to be counted as a competition kill. I request judgment that Verie was interfering.”
“Do you have evidence?” the judge asked.
Aya’s attention shifted to the judge. “If you doubt my word on this, shouldn’t I be held accountable? Either he was interfering or he wasn’t. If he wasn’t, his death is unjust. If he was interfering, I should get credit for his removal. There is precedent.”
The smile that Marchosias had barely been restraining became a wide grin. He stepped in front of the judge and walked to the edge of the platform. “It would seem that, as arbiter of the competition, that would be my ruling.” He looked at the crowd, who fell completely silent as he let his gaze slide over them. “If I award this kill to Aya, she will move from fourth- to third-ranked position on the matchboard. It could upset a lot of bets . . . at least for those souls who weren’t attentive enough to stay at the carnival to attend judgment.”