Daughter of the Burning City

by Amanda Foody

  My head pounds. “Let’s go. I’m dying. Pick him up.”

  Nicoleta nods and then reaches down to lift all three hundred pounds of him. He doesn’t budge. She groans and tries a second time, but it’s useless.

  “Shit,” she mutters. “Shit. Shit.”

  “What’s wrong?” She hasn’t had an issue all week with her abilities.

  “It’s not working. I’m not strong.” She gives a third heave but to no avail.

  “Don’t hurt yourself,” I say. “You need to move him. I won’t last more than another minute or so.”

  “Sorina, I can’t,” she snaps. “It’s not working. I’m not working.”

  I curse under my breath. When my illusion fades, if I’m found out, I won’t be treated with mercy. Nicoleta, perhaps, can flee. She looks like an Up-Mountainer. Her abilities aren’t so readily apparent on her face. I am the obvious freak, and I am desecrating a sacred house of Ovren.

  We both grab one of his arms and pull him over our shoulders to drag him. The massive weight of the man on my back strains everything I have left, even with his feet dragging across the stone floor behind us.

  “I can’t do this,” I grunt.

  “It’s not that far.”

  It’s all the way out of the church and then to the carriage. It’s far enough to fail.

  We make it halfway across the church before I need to stop. When I let Dalimil fall to the floor, it is only a half rest. I still need to maintain the illusion. The weight of the constant pushing presses against my mind, and I feel as though I am drowning, too exhausted to fight against the currents.

  “The breaks won’t help,” Nicoleta says. “You’re only extending the illusion.”

  She’s right. I’m depleting our time.

  We hoist him up again. This time, we make it out of the cathedral’s doors and into the packed square. People dart around us, searching for their respective parties. They don’t see us. They don’t see the man we carry, though more than one person trips on Dalimil’s ankles and mistakes them for a cobblestone.

  I spot our carriage among many others huddled together at the street’s corner. The sight of the end propels me forward and, despite my blurring vision, I quicken my step.

  As we cross the street, a carriage darts out in front of us. Obviously, the driver does not see us, and we’re directly in the path of his horses. “Push,” Nicoleta pants, and we both lunge forward. The wheels of the carriage, however, nick Dalimil’s shoes and roll over his ankles with loud cracks I’m not prepared to conceal. We stumble and fall, Dalimil landing on top of us.

  For a moment, the illusion flickers.

  “What was that?” the driver calls. He stops the horses and jumps out of his seat.

  “Sorina,” Nicoleta hisses, “I think I’ve sprained my ankle.”

  The driver comes closer, not realizing he’s about to walk over us. I let out a long curse and cast an additional illusion, a bird swooping down in front of his horses. The effort feels like I’m stretching my muscles to the point of tearing. The horses shriek, pulling the driver’s attention away.

  “Get up,” I snap. I’m ready to scream or cry; I don’t know which. “Get up. We’re nearly there.”

  We hobble the rest of the way. I have no strength left, but still I manage to move forward, to maintain the illusion. The strain comes at the expense of breathing. I nearly collapse against the carriage door and then gasp as I release the illusion on Nicoleta.

  “Hirohito,” she says to the driver, “help us.”

  He startles at her sudden appearance and then leaps to our aid. He, Nicoleta and I push the limp body of Dalimil into the carriage, and we collapse in afterward.

  We have succeeded, but we don’t waste time on self-congratulation. Hirohito snaps the reins, and we exit the gray city toward the comforting smoke of home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Villiam embraces me, and I allow myself to relax, inhaling the warm scent of his cologne. I’m in Gomorrah. Safe in my father’s office. Back in my regular clothes. The tower of the Cathedral of Saints Dominik and Zdena is behind me, and it cannot see me through Gomorrah’s smoke.

  “I’m so proud of you,” he says. “And so, so relieved.”

  “I felt like such a...” I search for the word, but that feeling of helplessness and ugliness I felt in the church is difficult to articulate. “A bug. An ant.” Like, if they saw me, they could squash me at any moment, without the slightest bit of thought.

  Villiam smile softens. “Who has carried more than her fair share of weight, as I understand.” He brushes my hair behind my ear. “You have never looked more beautiful.”

  I don’t feel beautiful. I don’t even feel victorious. Only tired.

  In the corner of the office, a healer braces Nicoleta’s sprained ankle. She doesn’t wince as he pulls the fabric tighter. Her gaze is fixed on the floor, and I can tell she’s troubled. She wears the sort of expression she usually has before snapping at Hawk that she has a headache.

  “When will you and Chimal speak to Dalimil?” Nicoleta asks.

  “This evening. But I don’t wish to concern you two with that. Your roles in this matter are very much completed, and you deserve a rest.”

  Part of me wants to insist on being there, however gruesome Chimal’s interrogation methods become. That man potentially orchestrated the murder of two members of my family. But even though the fury over their deaths remains, I struggle to connect it to his face. Dalimil may not be a good man. He may even be an evil one. But when I looked into his eyes, even if he didn’t see me perched on the marble steps of the church, I didn’t sense I was before Gill’s and Blister’s killer. And I would know, wouldn’t I? The soul should recognize those who have wounded it.

  Once the healer finishes treating Nicoleta, we say our goodbyes and head to our tent.

  “I’m sorry,” Nicoleta says. “I nearly got both of us killed.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it does. I was useless.”

  “Had you not been there, I wouldn’t have been able to carry Dalimil out on his own,” I say, trying to ease her mind. “It’s over. We did it. That’s all that matters.”

  Outside our tent, Luca is bent over a table, playing a game of lucky coins with Hawk and Unu and Du. His face sags with relief as we approach, and he abandons the game to come to my side.

  He wraps his arms around me. “Did we win?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” I press my forehead against his. “I’m going to sleep.”

  “Of course.”

  * * *

  That evening, after a much-needed rest, I don my best mask and some bright red lipstick. Luca has promised me a night of fun.

  I don’t know what to expect. Luca’s idea of fun is tea-partying with prettyworkers and telling morbid jokes. But, regardless, I could use some fun. I could use a distraction from my thoughts, which keep drifting to Dalimil and what Villiam might have learned from him by now. If he really is the leader of the Alliance, anyway.

  In my excitement, I race to Luca’s tent. The Downhill is abnormally quiet for this time of night, and the weather has grown chillier over the past few days. I had to dig my thicker cloaks out of storage. The guests have also changed their clothes, shifting from pastel oranges and salmons to rich sapphires and emeralds. I don’t know why anyone would wear their best clothes to Gomorrah, but our audience members, without fail, are always gussied up in pearls and satin gloves and sweeping up-dos. Begging to be pickpocketed.

  I find Luca waiting outside his tent, leaning against the silver-tipped cane that does nothing but make him look pretentious. He smiles when he sees me, that smile with the dimples that makes my insides flutter.

  “Where are
we going?” I ask. I try to hide the giddiness from my voice, because I’ve never been on a date and I’m starting to think that’s what this is. A real date. He’s probably going to make it a surprise. Somewhere enchanting or exhilarating, a part of the Festival only he knows.

  “I’m taking you to Skull Market,” he says. “I know you’ve barely explored the Downhill.”

  “You weren’t supposed to tell me,” I say.

  “What?”

  “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

  He furrows his eyebrows. “I hate surprises.”

  “That’s because you’re serious. And bor—because you’re so deliberate.”

  He flicks my forehead, on my mask.

  “What was that for?” I ask.

  “You were going to say boring.”

  He pulls me forward by my hand and leads me down a diagonal path, deeper into the Downhill, where I’ve never ventured before. Within a minute, we reach one of the two obelisks that mark Gomorrah’s end. They are twelve feet tall, black and identical. Their stone is so solid that no one has been able to carve into them, and, despite constant exposure to the elements, their surface remains forever smooth and matte.

  “The other obelisk is...maybe a mile away,” Luca says. He points his cane to the left, toward the twin obelisk. “Legend says that to walk between them brings misfortune.”

  “Everyone knows that.”

  “Well, excuse me. I didn’t mean to bore you.”

  I smirk and let him take me farther down the paths. We turn to the left and, nearly immediately, are struck by the noise and heat of hundreds of people together in a small space. The paper-lantern lights that usually dangle above tents and caravans are decorated with various expressions of sorrow, terror and fury in black paint. Skull Market is a maze of hundreds of vendors, thousands of smells. It sounds of coins jingling, the bells of auctions, the squabbles of haggling. There’s something to see around every corner. I can hardly believe the size of the place. It must be two or three square miles, made up entirely of stalls. They aren’t set up in a grid pattern to make it easy for the customers. Instead, vendors have constructed their tables and stalls wherever they please. In the middle of paths, adjacent to each other, in clusters that you practically need to crawl into in order to view the merchandise. The market is a mess of hiding places, and I have the itch to explore.

  “The fabric seller here can spin thread out of nearly anything and turn it into something worthwhile,” Luca says. He points to another stall. “That red sign means it’s a trading booth. You barter. I’ve seen the owner take one man’s trash and sell it to another as a treasure.”

  He has spiels prepared for nearly every stall, putting on a show for me.

  “As huge as this place is,” Luca says, “I doubt anyone is selling rare and exotic bugs. Unless they’re covered in chocolate.”

  “I don’t know...this place seems to have anything you could want.”

  “The Market covers a huge area of the Downhill, and it’s got quite a few landmarks. There’s a haunted caravan, apparently full of spirits. A cursing well. The famous pillar of salt in the heart of the Downhill.”

  The smells of the spiced wine and candied cashews from a nearby stall make my stomach rumble, and my coin purse is growing warm and eager in my pocket. Before Luca can object, I buy us two mugs of the wine.

  “What is this?” an Up-Mountain girl asks me, pointing at the mugs in my hands. She wears a brown cloak covering all but her pale face. She doesn’t seem like the type to visit the Downhill. She’s too...delicate.

  She also looks rather familiar.

  “Wine,” I say. “It’s warm. They put spices in it.”

  Her eyes twinkle and she mutters something to the man next to her, who nearly jumps at her touch. He doesn’t seem the type to be in the Downhill, either. After some eye rolling, he fishes in his pockets for coins and hands them to the girl.

  “Your mask is beautiful,” the girl tells me. “The colors are so vibrant.”

  “Thank you,” I say hesitantly. I’m not used to being complimented by a visitor. It also bothers me that I cannot figure out why I recognize her.

  “And that boy there. He’s beautiful, too, no?” She giggles and takes a sip of her wine. At the taste of it, she squeals with delight and turns back to the man with her.

  Then I recognize her. The bride from yesterday. I’m certain of it. She’s less recognizable without her trailing pink gown and the flowers in her hair, but it’s definitely her.

  I return to Luca’s side. “That girl over there. She’s the bride from the wedding this morning,” I say. I point her out to him. “What do you think she’s doing in Gomorrah?”

  “Can’t have been much of a honeymoon, if she’s here without her husband,” he says jokingly.

  I watch her pass with the man beside her—probably a bodyguard. As jarring as it may be to see her here, I won’t stop her. She deserves some fun.

  “I can’t believe I’ve never come here before,” I say to Luca, turning my back on the princess. “This place is so alive.” I sip my wine, and it warms me all the way down. “Where should we go first?”

  The wine turns Luca’s lips a deep burgundy. “I thought I had to make that a surprise,” he said.

  “See? You’re catching on.”

  He wraps his arm around my waist, and I’m surprised by our closeness and the firmness of his grip. We haven’t been this close since almost two weeks ago, when he stayed the night to help keep me awake and the illusions locked away in their Trunks.

  We walk through the paths, and within a few minutes, I realize Luca has no idea where he’s going. Not that I blame him; Skull Market has clearly been constructed for visitors to lose their way—and their money—within it.

  He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and for a few moments, I forget to breathe. “Come on. I want to show you the pillar.”

  “Do you even know where you’re going?”

  “Of course I do. It’s just this way.” He points to a mere crevice in between a few tents. We squeeze through it, the tent material brushing against us on all sides. Soon the Market vanishes behind us, and we are in a tunnel of pink, purple and red. Luca stops walking, and he turns around so suddenly that his blond hair falls out of place and into his eyes.

  “Why are you stopping?” I ask.

  “There’s no one around,” he says. His eyes travel from the silver tip of his cane to me, and he watches me as if I should have expected this comment, as if I should know what’s coming, as if I should keep up.

  And then he kisses me.

  Since we have only kissed a few times, it still shocks me when it happens. It only lasts for a few moments, but it’s tender, and I’m breathless when he pulls away. He slides his hand around my waist and holds me there, our faces only inches apart. The material of the tent beside us presses against my hair.

  “I know I haven’t told you, but I like having you around. I like what we have,” he says.

  I laugh breathlessly. “Did you bring me here just to kiss me?”

  “Did I surprise you?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiles a wide, boyish smile that makes my heart melt. But it disappears, replaced by hesitation. “I know I’m not impulsive or spontaneous, but I like what we are. I’ve never had this. And I want you to like what we are, too.”

  I kiss his cheek. “I promise I like...what we are. As long as you do.”

  “What I said before was true—this is very new to me. I’ve rarely had close friends, let alone anything close to a romantic relationship. And I still doubt I’ll ever be a person who looks twice as I pass the House of Delights. But I’m not breakable—you can touch me. I’m a big boy. I can tell you what I want and what I don’t, if I want to stop, if I want to keep going. You have my consent to..
.touch my neck.” He brushes my fingers against his neck. “Or step close enough that we’re touching.” I inch a step closer, until there is no space between us. “Or kiss me, whenever you want.”

  I know this is an invitation to kiss him exactly the way I’ve wanted to for so long, but I’m so amused by his use of big boy that I giggle.

  “What?” His face reddens. I’ve probably embarrassed him. That was a very serious speech.

  Once I have my laugh at his expense, I kiss him the way I want to, the way he wants me to. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and pull him so close that the buttons of his vest press into my stomach. I slide my tongue over his bottom lip, and he runs his fingers through my hair. And after at least a minute of this—maybe two, maybe five—I kiss my way along his jaw, my lips only brushing his skin.

  I want to move. The tents are so close that it’s growing claustrophobic and almost uncomfortable, so I say, “Maybe this isn’t the best place for this.”

  “I was going to suggest relocating, as well.”

  We slide our way out of the tunnel to the other side, free at last. “I’d like to show you the salt pillar,” he says. “Unless you’d rather we go back somewhere else.”

  I interpret this as going somewhere private. “What, to your tent?”

  “If you’d like.” The words are loaded. Not with the promise of sex—at least, I don’t think so—but of taking this further.

  “I feel like you have this idea of me as someone who is walking around in a permanent state of lust,” I say.

  “I envision that of most people, actually. It’s not only you. And this is based purely on observation.”

  “You observe prettyworkers, Luca,” I say, snorting. “Believe it or not, I’m not a walking mess of urges. And a lot of this is new to me, as well, even if it’s in a different way.” I blush a little to admit this. “Do you mind postponing your offer for another time? I’d like to see that pillar of salt.”

  It’s more than that. I’d still like to have my date. I’d still like to hold his hand and walk in public as an item. Me, the girl without eyes, and him, beautiful in a way that makes me feel beautiful just to stand beside him. I still want that private night, even if it’s just lying on his chest. But I want this first.